Asking for Roses
by Dogstar101
Summary: Neville thinks his summer will be much like any other: working in his grandmother's garden and other lonely pursuits. After leaving Hogwarts many months before, Hannah Abbott believes she is trapped and isolated for good. They're both mistaken. PreTDH.
1. Summer Again

_With thanks to my amazing beta reader, Suburban House Elf and to Seaspray who took the time to read this and encourage me. _

Asking for Roses Chapter One: Summer Again 

A teenage boy was kneeling on his bed, leaning on his elbows against the window sill. His pale, round face was expectant. He flung open the window and stuck his head out, breathing in the scent of the honeysuckle that rambled over the sloping slate roof below him. At one time, the ramshackle outbuilding which stuck out from the main body of the narrow Victorian terraced house had held an outside loo. Now it contained nothing more than a couple of tatty brooms and an inordinate number of plant pots.

The boy shaded his eyes, gazing out over the garden and the clump of trees behind it, towards fields that faded into moorland, and beyond that, eventually, to the sea, invisible in the early morning mist. He searched the skies eagerly for a glimpse of what he was waiting for: a plump and fluffy bird with red-brown dappled plumage.

A moment later, a quavering but none the less imperious voice shattered the early morning peace. "Neville! We are leaving _on time_ this morning and your breakfast is _on the table_!"

Reluctantly, Neville turned and jumped down off the bed. As he landed on the floor and straightened up, he winced. He stooped gingerly to pick up a pair of trainers, then sat down on the bed again to put them on and tie the laces. When this was done, he put his head in his hands for a moment, as though even that effort had exhausted him. Three weeks and it still felt like a knife twisting in his guts when he woke each morning from an uneasy night's sleep – a sleep haunted by confused dreams filled with shouts and flashes of light and terrible, gripping fear. And bodies. Bodies lying on stone floors in pools of blood – his own or someone else's – in the dream it was impossible to tell.

Neville knew he should get moving or he'd catch it from his Gran. There was nothing to look forward to now. The day to come would be predictably and uniformly grey and miserable, despite the promise of a blazing July day – something to be got through, endured, the same as always.

Trevor gazed in unblinking sympathy from his vantage point on a deep and crowded shelf running the entire width of one wall. The tank in which he was sitting was a new indignity. _It's for your own good, Trevor. _Old age indeed. Trevor's energies were currently fixed on a scheme involving an adroit leap and a soft landing. It was a scheme requiring bottomless patience but one that – Trevor knew – would pay off in the fullness of time. Long experience told him that his master would forget to leave his towel in the airing cupboard after his morning bath. Inevitable that he would try to pile both towel and dressing-gown on the small brass hook behind the bedroom door. The towel was bound to fall. It always did. Maybe not today, or the day after, but soon. With the correct spin to a carefully calculated leap, a soft landing would be within his reach, at which point – Trevor was certain – the loose clasp on the tank would burst open. Freedom. Not long now. But in the meantime, his master needed him. Trevor opened his mouth.

"Oh, I'm sorry Trevor! I'll feed you."

Neville ran downstairs, moving more easily now. As he rounded the last step and headed through to the back kitchen, he passed the open door of the formal dining room, where his grandmother only laid out breakfast on 'special' days. "For heaven's sake, Neville, where are you off to now?" she called. Her voice was sharp and strained. "We have exactly thirty minutes before we need to leave."

"Just got to feed _Trevor!_ Back in a bit." Neville opened the back door and made his way across the lawn. Neville's grandfather had given him a small corner of one of the raised beds when he was just five years old – '_somewhere the lad can play and stay out of trouble_'. Over the years, Neville had gradually taken on more and more responsibility for the large garden, but his favourite area was still his original plot, where he tested out every summer holiday what he'd learned at Hogwarts the previous year. His grandmother now refused to let it expand any further. The last gardener had refused to come back following a nasty encounter with a Fanged Geranium.

Neville crouched to collect Trevor's breakfast. He reached for a jam jar sunk into the earth next to a rotten log, its opening level with the ground. It was baited with a small piece of raw meat. Neville raised the board covering the mouth of the jar, propped up with a small stone. There had been rain the night before and the beetles had been active. There were six in total.

Looking slightly more cheerful, or at least resigned to the day ahead, Neville went back up to his room and transferred the beetles to Trevor's tank. His damp towel had fallen onto the floor. He picked it up and thought about walking along the landing to the airing cupboard. No time – better hurry. He replaced the towel on the hook behind the door, ran back downstairs and slipped into the chair opposite his grandmother, grabbing a slice of toast and buttering it half-heartedly. He didn't seem to have much of an appetite at the moment. Instead, he poured himself a cup of strong tea from the rapidly cooling pot. As he did so, a plump tawny owl swooped in through the open sash window.

"Gran – she's here!"

"Yes, I can see that, young man." Augusta Longbottom's voice softened. "Hebe – my angel. Where have you been all this time?" She held out her hand for the owl to alight. Instead, the bird settled on Neville's shoulder and extended her leg. With trembling fingers, he unfastened the small roll of parchment and carefully spread it on the table, tea and toast forgotten.

_Dear Neville,_

_Thank you for your last letter. It was good to hear from you, even with such awful news. I know I've said it before but if it hadn't been for you and my other friends keeping in touch, the last few months would have been unbearable. Although, it's funny because I got the strangest note from Professor Sprout the other day. It was so sweet of her to write. I miss her. In answer to your question, there's no chance I'll be able to go back to school next year. I'll explain when I see you. Yes, that's my answer to your second question, but I'll come onto that._

Neville put the letter down for a second and took a noisy gulp of his tea. Augusta held back a retort about table manners with difficulty. Her grandson was looking more cheerful than she'd seen him since he arrived home for the holidays. For the first few days, he'd done little except limp around the garden, looking frustrated at all the work that needed doing. This week, he'd recovered sufficiently to start pulling his weight again, but he'd been going about his chores with less than his usual gusto. Although longing to, she hadn't quizzed him about the events of the end of term, taking Poppy's and Minerva's advice for once. Across the table, Neville slammed his mug down with a thump, spattering the tablecloth, before starting to read eagerly again.

_I haven't heard from Susan since the start of the holidays – she said she wouldn't be able to write once she left Hogwarts. They have to be so careful. But I'd give anything to know that she's safe. _

_Death everywhere. I have to keep telling myself not to be gloomy. Life goes on. For some people, anyway. _

_I'm so sorry you got hurt. I can't imagine how terrifying it must have been. Thank goodness you're getting better now. You are being careful, I hope? Being hit with a Blasting Curse, even indirectly, is no joke. _

_I had a feeling something must have happened. I had my Galleon in my pocket, I like to keep it with me to remind me of last year when Mum before all these horrible things started happening. I was lying on my bed in the dark, talking to my cat. Reading seems pointless and I can't seem to concentrate on my knitting, so it makes no difference. Zophy's a real comfort though, she hardly leaves my side. Anyway, I felt the Galleon starting to get hot straight away._

_I switched on the light and all I could do was sit there and look at it, and wonder what was going on, wishing I could have been there. I'm not brave like you but at least I could have done something. I can't believe Ernie let you all down. I told him never to stop checking, but he's always been a heavy sleeper, or so I've heard. I could bash him, I really could. _

_I can't wait to see you and ask the millions of questions buzzing round my head. I feel like we're just walking around in ignorance, not knowing when the next bolt from the blue is going to strike. I've had a lot of time to think over these last months and talking to Dad and everything he's going through _

_Then again – maybe I'm better off not knowing, stuck here._

_Gosh, this is a long one. I'll get to the point. I can meet you tomorrow – well, today by the time you're reading this. I'm coming down to London with Dad, he says he's been promised a meeting with someone about Mum. I can't imagine who – all our letter-writing must have paid off. He even got me to send a owl to the Ministry a few weeks ago, although I told him it was useless. _

_So, I'll meet you outside St. Mungo's at 12.30, like you suggested. The Physic Garden sounds lovely. I do hope it's a nice day. I could do with some sunshine, and a bit of fun. _

_Can't wait to see you!_

_Hannah _

_xxx _

Neville folded the letter, smiling to himself. She was coming. He could hardly believe it. He was meeting a girl. For a whole afternoon. Something he'd arranged and she'd said yes to. That meant he actually had … a _date_. Neville found that his mouth had gone very dry. He stopped smiling.

"Come along, Neville, it's time for us to go." Augusta was consumed with curiosity, but she wasn't going to question her grandson about the first thing that had put a smile on his face in days. It turned out she didn't have to.

"Right. Um, Gran, is it OK if I don't come back with you this afternoon? I – I've arranged to meet a – a friend, in London. I won't be late."

"And how will you get back, if not from St. Mungo's? Floo regulations are so strict these days. And it's not as if you can Apparate yet – your test isn't until the end of the month."

"I can get back through the connection at the Leaky Cauldron. It's open 'til last orders. I've done it before."

"Things are different now. It's not safe. I have to forbid it." Augusta looked at the young man standing in front of her. His face was pale but perfectly composed. She remembered, with a pang of surprise, that her days of forbidding Neville to do things were drawing to an end. Still, she wasn't going to let him defy her on this, not after what he'd put her through recently. "I'm sorry, Neville, the answer is no."

"Gran, you do realise, don't you?" His voice was solemn, but determined. "We can't hide all the time. That'd just be letting them win. And Hannah, the g – girl I'm meeting, her mum was killed last year. For no reason. She was a _Muggle_, Gran. And Hannah's been stuck at her Dad's house, for the last ten months, with no news. Nothing. Her Dad's a Muggle too. Can you imagine what it's like for them? I have to see her. I can't let her down."

Augusta sank back into her chair, feeling all of her seventy-two years. With an effort, she summoned her customary brisk and commanding air for a final protest. "Don't you understand, you foolish boy? You could be a target. You must realise that."

For a moment, Neville went perfectly still. Augusta was used to her grandson fading out mid-conversation, but this was different. The set expression on his face gave him a look of Frank. It was unexpected. She was used to Neville's remarkable resemblance to his mother. It had become, over the years, a part of him, a part that didn't bring his parents to mind automatically. Now, the sudden reminder of her son, strangely, put Augusta in mind of poor Alice; the soft curve of her mouth and gentle laugh. For the thousandth time, Augusta felt a familiar sinking around her heart. Her beloved Frank – and little Alice, the almost-daughter she'd known for only a short time. Had she ever seen a young couple more in love, with more to look forward to? How she missed them both. Augusta sighed and pushed the memories away.

Then Neville seemed to emerge from whatever place he'd gone to, in that dreamy, exasperating inner world of his. "Oh, they've got bigger fish to fry than me, Gran."

She shrugged impatiently. "I give up. You'll do what you want anyway. You're becoming more like your father with every passing year. He was stubborn as a mule too."

He blinked. This was the first time Gran had ever compared him to his Dad in terms that didn't leave Neville sadly wanting – in brains, talent, strength. Stubborn almost ranked as a compliment. Daringly, he went up to his grandmother and put his arm around her shoulders. She felt smaller than usual, and frail somehow.

"It'll be fine, Gran. I'm not going anywhere. I never wanted to be an Auror, even if I had got the grades. Come on, let's go and see Mum and Dad."


	2. Eyes and Tears

Chapter Two: Eyes and Tears

The street thronged with office workers buying their lunchtime sandwiches under the shimmering haze of a midday sun. None of them took any notice of the teenage boy in neatly-pressed jeans and thick, black jacket, leaning against the glass frontage of the shabby department store that never opened. Buses thundered past in both directions but Neville was oblivious to the roar of the traffic and din of a thousand strident voices. Finally, he could stop pretending to be buried in his well-read copy of _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ – because he could see her.

A short, blonde girl, cheeks pink in the sweltering heat, was striding towards him. She weaved in and out of the crowd, looking perfectly at home ignoring the beggars and dodging Muggle street vendors hawking tourist tat. Hannah Abbott. They'd shared a table in the Herbology greenhouse off and on for more than five years, sat next to each other in the Hog's Head at the first gathering of what was to become Dumbledore's Army, and even danced one dance at the Yule Ball. But now ...

Neville swallowed nervously and wished he were somewhere else entirely. Back home preferably, reading his new copy of _Pruning Techniques for Dangerous Shrubs,_ or perhaps mowing the lawn for his Gran. Why had he suggested they meet here of all places? Even though they'd corresponded regularly over the last ten months, the girl now approaching him, dressed in perfectly ordinary jeans and t-shirt with a big, blue rucksack slung on her back, looked like a stranger. Now she was just twenty yards away – ten – five ...

"Hello, Neville." Her voice was unfamiliar too. She hovered uncertainly, peering with curiosity into the windows of Purge & Dowse. Should he hug her? Or shake hands ...?

"H – Hi." Neville dropped his book face-down on the filthy pavement, as a large woman with drawn-on eyebrows and a great deal of heavy gold jewellery jostled his elbow.

"Tcha!" she spat, as though it were Neville's fault, and hurried on her way without apologising.

"Shall we get away from this madhouse?" Hannah appeared to check herself. "Neville, I'm sorry. I didn't mean ..." Her cheeks were now crimson. At that moment, the sun disappeared behind a tiny cloud and a fresh breeze attacked the litter on the dusty concrete beneath their feet. Neville wasn't offended. In fact, he felt relief wash over him as he remembered that Hannah knew the reason for meeting outside St. Mungo's. He'd told her about Mum and Dad, a little at least, in his letter. He wasn't going to have to hide or explain anything.

"Forget it." The ice was broken.

"Isn't it hot? Maybe we should find somewhere to sit down? A cafe or something."

"Er – OK."

Without another word, she led the way down a narrow side street that twisted and turned confusingly. Desperately, Neville recited the Muggle transport directions he'd memorised and hoped that Hannah would be able to remember the way back. To add to his concern, he noticed he was attracting odd looks from passers by. Could they _tell_he wasn't one of them?

"Here's one. It's a bit off the beaten track, so it should be fairly quiet." Hannah walked confidently into a dim, blessedly cool coffee shop and homed in on the only free table. Two girls sneered at Neville as he squeezed past their table.

"Is he going to the North Pole, d'you think?" they giggled. Neville sank gratefully into the chair opposite Hannah. He could feel sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. Hannah ordered from the waitress in a business-like fashion, then sat back, looking contemplatively at Neville. She lifted her rucksack onto the table.

"Why don't you give me your jacket and I'll put it in my bag? There's plenty of room and you must be boiling."

"I – I can't. My book's in the inside pocket. It's heavy."

"That's all right, I don't mind. What is it? _One Thousand_ ... Oh. Well, not to worry, we can take turns carrying it."

"And m – my wand." Neville lowered his voice to a whisper. "Gran made me promise to keep it to hand, in case of emergencies."

"Ah." Hannah frowned a little.

"Is yours in the bag then?" He kept his voice low. "Isn't it a bit, you know, inaccessible? Wand-safety and all that."

"No. I don't have it with me, actually. I left it at the hotel." She sounded nervous, and her cheeks were again flushed with embarrassment, but Hannah kept her head held up defiantly. To cover his confusion, Neville took a sip of his coffee, which had just arrived. The pause lengthened. Finally, she said, "Look, why don't you put your wand in your pocket or something? It's not as if you're going to need it. You'd get into awful trouble. Your birthday isn't for three weeks is it?" _She knows my birthday._ Then her words began to sink in. It seemed like she had no idea how bad things were now.

His Gran's warning earlier that morning came back to him. Wasn't Hannah in more danger than most, given what had happened? He tried to remember what had been reported in the _Daily Prophet_, but only the haziest of details came back to him. There'd been mention of an investigation… When writing to him, Hannah had referred to some letter-writing campaign of her dad's a few times. He'd got the impression the inquiry into her mother's death was still going on, but hadn't liked to pry, thinking that she wouldn't want to be constantly reminded about why she'd had to leave school.

"We might as well be comfortable." Hannah didn't seem to have noticed the awkward silence. "It's three buses to get to the Physic Garden, I looked it up." She smiled, her composure perfectly recovered. "Pass me your jacket over. I should introduce you anyway."

It was as though the sun had come out again. Neville decided to drop the subject of magic for the time being. He shoved his wand into the belt loop of his jeans and pulled his t-shirt out to hide it, resolving to be on his guard, under age or not. "Introduce me?"

Hannah reached down and lifted her rucksack onto the table. The long zip around the top was undone. She gently reached inside. "Zophy. Wake up. I've a friend for you to meet." A head with large pointed ears, tufted eyebrows and a squashed nose emerged from the bag. The cat opened its eyes reluctantly. The expression on its fluffy face was distinctly disgruntled. "She didn't like the train journey, but she _would_ insist on coming. She's still in a bit of a mood. Normally she rides along with her head sticking out. She's awfully tame, considering she's still a baby really."

"She's sweet," said Neville, scratching between the cat's ears. She purred. At last, he was doing something right. "Where'd you get her? You never had her at school, did you?"

"No, I got her about six months ago, from an ad in the paper."

"The Prophet?"

"No, a local paper. Zophy isn't magical, she's an ordinary moggie, even if she is a beautiful one."

Cats were never just ordinary, that's what Gran always said. "Well, she looks like a proper witch's cat."

Hannah's expression clouded again. What had he said now? Would he ever learn not to put his foot in it? She took a sip of her coffee and said, brusquely. "Well, she isn't." She rolled up Neville's jacket and tucked it into the bag next to the kitten, who looked pleased and began to knead it into a comfortable cushion with her paws. He resigned himself to a jacket covered in cat hair. For the next few minutes they drank coffee in yet another tense silence, while he searched frantically for something to say. All he wanted to know was why, as a qualified witch whose seventeenth birthday had come and gone, Hannah wasn't carrying her wand. It still didn't feel like the moment to ask.

Neville drained the dregs of his coffee. Ugh. He had no idea how to pay, but wasn't it his responsibility, as the one who'd issued the invitation? Hannah waved his handful of Galleons away. "It's fine, you can treat me later." This at least seemed to indicate that she wasn't planning on ditching him yet, but the day was starting to feel less and less like any sort of date. Neville wondered again whether his Gran had been right, that he'd have been better off at home, out of harm's way. Then there was Hannah. Risking her life, luring her into the open without any means to defend herself had not been part of the plan. A stupid plan, he now realised, and one based on an almost certainly unfounded fantasy. There was no way Hannah, or any girl for that matter, would ever like him in _that_ way.

They stood up to leave. As Neville picked up the bag and swung it gently onto his shoulders, Hannah smiled up at him. He felt a fluttering somewhere in the region of his stomach, which distracted him from the constant, dull ache in his ribcage. She was as pretty as he remembered. He thought back to the polite, brief note of sympathy he'd sent after Hannah had left Hogwarts so abruptly. Asking Professor Sprout for her home address the following day had felt like the bravest thing he'd ever done. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

* * *

The Physic Garden was busier than Neville had ever seen it. He was dismayed. He'd wanted Hannah to enjoy its cool seclusion, see in it the same peaceful, ordered beauty as he did. "I'm sorry, it's as packed as everywhere else." He tried to hide the disappointment in his voice.

He stood aside to let a woman pass. She was pushing a wheeled contraption that took up the entire width of the gravel path. Neville winced as she bellowed in his ear. "Clarissa, what have I told you about needing the potty!"

Hannah patted his arm soothingly, and he felt the jump in his stomach again. "Don't worry about it. It's the school holidays. Everywhere's like this. It's lovely, really. I've hardly been out of doors for weeks, except to walk to work." They skirted a small child crouching on the path in front of them.

Work?

"I must say I was a bit surprised when you suggested coming here." Hannah stepped off the path, held her arms out and closed her eyes, smiling beatifically at the heavens. "Where did you hear about it?"

Neville stopped to wait for her, looking round nervously at the tall buildings surrounding the walled garden. There were a lot of windows, he noticed. Hannah was standing by herself on a patch of grass. The thought crossed his mind that she looked like a target. He patted his wand, to check it was still safely tucked into his waistband and moved off again, praying that she would follow him back into the crowd.

"I used to come here with Grandad when I was little, after visiting Mum and Dad. It was one of his favourite places." They reached the open space of the pond and rockery in the centre of the garden. Hannah stopped walking again. She looked puzzled.

"I don't understand. Was he a – um ...?" Mid-sentence, Hannah changed what she had been about to say. "I thought the Longbottoms were a pure-blood family." she said in an odd tone of voice.

"Oh, yeah, we are. Most wizards don't know about this place, unless they're really into Herbology or Potions, but when it started, this was a school for Apothecaries. Sometimes wizard families would send children here as apprentices, if they were poor and couldn't afford Hogwarts."

"You mean wizards and M – Muggles together?" asked Hannah, frowning at a leaflet they'd been handed on their way in.

"Mmm. It was a long time ago. Grandad told me it was a witch who saved this place when it looked like it'd have to close down. That's why it's still here after four hundred years. She made some sort of gift in – in ... something or other. "

"Perpetuity."

"Um, right. Her name was Elladora something ... Ketteridge!" Neville produced the name triumphantly.

"I've heard of her - she's on a Chocolate Frog Card ..."

"That's right. She discovered Gillyweed."

Hannah's eyes were shining with excitement. "I remember now, we learned about this in History of Magic. It was before the International Statute of Secrecy! Wizards and M – Muggles living and working alongside each other in places like this. Professor Binns said it all became too difficult to control, so there was the split. Th – they went one way and we went the other."

Neville was impressed that Hannah had managed to stay awake long enough to hear anything Professor Binns had said, let alone remember it. "I dunno. Sounds about right. My granddad told me the Muggles think it was one of their lot that kept the place going. I think that's his statue over there."

Now, it seemed, Hannah was getting interested. She led the way into the Garden of World Medicine. "They've got dittany over here, and what's this? Geranium."

"Not the Fanged one though. That was banned when it first appeared. There were laws against experimental breeding, Professor Sprout told me. Hard to imagine now, isn't it? With stuff like Devil's Snare around and it's not even a controlled – y'know – thingummyjig." His mind wandered. He should have _noticed_that time at St. Mungo's. If only he hadn't been so shocked at seeing Hermione and the rest of them …

Hannah had fallen silent, apparently lost in thought. She wandered from plant to plant, looking as sad as she had in the coffee shop when Neville had made the remark about Zophy being a witch's cat. She only smiled politely when Neville showed her his favourite exhibit, a blue plaque entitled "The Mandrake Myth."

"But Mandrakes do scream, don't they?" she asked vaguely. "We did it in second year. We had to wear those special ear muffs."

"Exactly!" Neville said eagerly. He crouched down and pointed out an innocuous-looking plant. "Muggles think _this_ is a mandrake. But sometimes the magic variety turns up in the wild and causes havoc. It happened a few years ago near a Herbology nursery in Lincolnshire. It got into the local paper and they had to Obliviate twenty thousand people."

"Awful."

Neville couldn't help wishing his only anecdote had gone down a little better. He couldn't put it off any longer. "Hannah," he began tentatively. "Why don't you have your wand with you today?"

She turned to face him. Her eyes were very blue in the strong sunlight. "It's a long story. Perhaps we'd better sit down."

* * *

Neville led the way down an almost hidden path. It was quieter in this part of the garden and cooler in the shade of tall trees. Under the overhanging branches, he found what he was looking for. The slatted wooden bench was more weathered than he remembered it, and smaller. When they sat down, their knees almost touched. He looked around, quickly. The place was deserted and they'd be able to hear anyone approaching. He took his wand out and placed it on his lap, relaxing for the first time that afternoon. He glanced at Hannah, who frowned and said, "I'm not sure how to begin."

Neville waited. After a minute, she began again. "I suppose I'm worried that if I say it out loud it'll sound stupid, and you'll think I'm crazy. Maybe I am."

"I won't think you're mad," he said quietly.

Hannah looked at him sideways and said heavily, "Well, you know I'm Muggle-born?" She stopped again.

"I know. So are a lot of people." Neville spoke gently, aware of how much was at stake. "What does that have to do with not having your wand with you?"

"Two worlds. I have to live in one of them. I have to _choose_."

Somehow, he'd expected something like this. The hints in her letters perhaps. Or the breezy way she'd dealt with all the nuisances and hazards of their journey across London, as though determined to say, without words, _This is where I belong._ She was wrong. But how could he get her to see it?

"Why did you come and meet me then?" he asked simply.

"I don't know." She bowed her head, so that Neville could no longer see her face under the curtain of straight blonde hair. Her shoulders heaved, silently, and a tear splashed onto her hands.

"Hannah, when did you last do any magic?"

She didn't answer. "Your birthday was in May, wasn't it? Anything since then?" Mutely, Hannah shook her head. A few more tears landed on her jeans and soaked into the fabric. "It must have been at school then."

"I suppose," she said dully. "What difference does it make?"

"Well, er, take a look around you."

She lifted her head. Her eyes were puffy and her cheeks streaked with tears. He could feel a deep shaking reverberating through her body, from her knee now pressing against his. Surrounding the bench, in a perfect circle were white, umbrella-shaped mushrooms, getting larger by the second. "They weren't here a minute ago," said Neville, keeping his voice matter-of-fact. "Even fast-growing varieties take twelve hours."

"So?"

"I think you're doing it. Accidental magic – you know, like babies do."

Hannah gave a mirthless little laugh. "You think I'm causing fungus to grow. Great."

"Think about it. Has anything like this happened before?"

"Of course not, except ..." Hannah fell silent.

"What?"

"Well, I suppose I have been taking my moods out on the garden. It's a mess. And then the nettles and stuff grow as fast as I can cut them back."

"There you are then. _Magic will out_." He gave an embarrassed shrug as Hannah looked at him in surprise. "That's what my Gran used to say about me anyway."

"You don't understand. I _can't_ be a witch anymore. Not now."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"It's complicated." For a long moment, Hannah was silent. Neville said nothing, just waited. He'd offered to listen but he had no idea if he'd have anything useful to say in return.

Eventually, with a deep sigh, Hannah began to speak. She told him about how she'd been taken out of Herbology, all those months ago and taken to her Head of House's office, where Professor Dumbledore had been waiting to give her the news that her mother had died in a suspicious accident. Half an hour later, her trunk had been brought to her, so that she hadn't even gone back to her dormitory, but had taken the Floo Network straight to Diagon Alley. "Professor Sprout came with me. She kissed me goodbye. I think she was crying."

"What happened after that?"

She told him how her father had been waiting for her in the Leaky Cauldron. That had been her last contact with the wizarding world, except for a man who had turned up at the inquest two weeks later. Throughout the proceedings, the man had only addressed himself to Hannah, acting as though her dad wasn't even there. "I didn't like him. He told me the Ministry were satisfied the 'incident' had been 'entirely Muggle-related'".

Hannah repeated what she'd said in her last letter: that if it hadn't been for her classmates writing to her, it would almost have been possible to forget that the wizarding world existed for the next ten months. With a catch in her voice, she told Neville about sitting up night after night with her dad, while he went over and over the details they'd heard at the inquest, his almost crazed grief as he tried to make sense of them and come to terms with what had happened. "Of course, I had to look after him, and the house. He couldn't do anything for himself, couldn't go back to work. He lost his job in the end, they couldn't hold it open for him forever. So, I got a part-time job to make ends meet."

She didn't talk to him about her own grief, any more than she had in the letters. She hinted again at long sleepless nights, and her struggle to work out a possible future for herself, one that combined the friends she'd made over the previous six years with taking care of her father. She said how hard it had been to imagine a wizarding career or even a job that made such a life workable. "And I couldn't do any magic, all those months. I thought I'd forget everything. On my seventeenth birthday I had to go to work. I came home so excited at the thought of doing magic again, but scared too. I made myself wait until I'd cooked a meal for Dad. I told myself it was because I don't know any cooking spells, but it was really because I was too nervous. I went upstairs afterwards and just lay on my bed, cuddling Zophy. I stared at my wand for hours and couldn't remember a single spell."

"Not even a first year one?" Neville interrupted for the first time in several minutes, trying not to sound sceptical.

"It's like I had some kind of mental block. I got more and more frightened, it was like not being able to remember who I was. In the end, I couldn't summon up any more energy to try. There didn't seem any point, if I was going to be stuck at home for the rest of my life. It seemed better to forget, really. Finally, I drifted off to sleep just as it was getting light and the birds started singing."

Neville looked at his wand. No one else had touched it apart from him, not since the day Gran had bought it for him. Maybe this was a way he could help her. "What if …" He hesitated. "You could try something small ... "

At that moment, he noticed a Muggle with a dog walking towards them, looking curiously at the mushrooms as he went past. Neville checked himself, shocked and flustered at his stupidity. Had he really been about to suggest she cast a spell here … now, with all these people around? He had to stay more alert. He glanced up and down the path, checking they weren't attracting more unwelcome attention.

Fortunately, Hannah seemed unaware of his confusion. "Neville, it's kind of you to want to help, but I don't know if I even want to try again. I might as well stay here, and keep living as a Muggle. Why not? Sometimes I think it's where I belong … It's not as if there's any use going on about it. You've all got enough to deal with. What use am I to anyone, except Dad? I can't go back to school and I can't fight like this."

By this time, Hannah's voice had become slower and heavier. "It was easier, in some ways, when I thought my magic was gone for good. It felt … safer. Then your owl delivered your last letter. I had to answer, I couldn't stop myself. Maybe I needed to tell someone."

Neville wished he could think of something, anything, constructive to say. "What about your other friends? Ernie ... you were prefects together, weren't you? Have you talked to him?" He tried to ignore the selfish part of him that was hoping for a negative answer to that question.

"Ernie wouldn't understand. He'd say that I should come back to school and think about my future. He'll say I'm throwing everything away and that we all have to stand together or they'll win, th – the other side." Against his will, Neville felt a rush of liking for Ernie. He'd always found him a bit condescending at school. "And Susan would be sympathetic and get upset when she couldn't help. I don't want to burden her, especially not now."

Something Hannah had said in her letter came back to him. "You said your Dad was coming down to London today as well, to meet someone?"

"Yes, I left him at the tube. I don't know who it was, some private detective I think. He's been writing letters non-stop for months. It's all he does. I told you he got me to send an owl to the Ministry. Nothing came back except a letter to me telling me to get him to stop bothering them, that they had more important things to worry about at the moment, and didn't I realise there's a war on? You should have seen the one he sent back." She sighed.

Neville was at a loss. He was no good at this. He felt like he was walking along an uncertain path in the dark where any false step could send him plunging to his doom. But Hannah needed help, and she'd come to him, not someone she knew better. There had to be a reason for that. He hit upon something.

"But you still carried your Galleon with you." It was statement, not a question. For a moment, Hannah glared at him, with the same defiant look she'd given him in the cafe. As Neville regarded her steadily and didn't say anything else, her expression changed. Her eyes widened and she seemed to relax a little. Her head dropped again but this time her hands stayed dry.

He sensed she had said enough for one afternoon. Other passers-by were beginning to stop and stare at the beautiful white mushrooms that were now as wide as dinner plates. After a moment or two, he said, "Come on. Let's go."

Hannah looked up from her examination of the patches on the knees of her jeans. "Wh – where?"

"You're staying near King's Cross?"

"Yes, we go back in the morning."

"Then there's loads of time." Neville stood up. "We're stopping off at your hotel first and getting your wand and then we're going to Diagon Alley."

* * *

_A/N Chelsea Physic Garden was founded in 1673 by the Worshipful Society of the Apothecaries of London. At that time, botany and medicine were indistinguishable and the purpose of the garden was to allow students to study plants used in healing, hence its title of 'physic' garden, the old name for the art of healing. The continuing existence of the garden for more than four hundred years is credited not to Elladora Ketteridge but to Dr. Hans Sloane, the noted collector and physician whose acts of munificence included the foundation of the British Museum. In 1713 he purchased the 4 acres on which the present Chelsea Physic Garden garden stands, and leased it in 1722 to the Society of Apothecaries for £5 a year in perpetuity._


	3. The Open Door

"Don't come upstairs. I won't be a minute."

Hannah left Neville standing on the sticky carpet in the dingy hall of the boarding house, while she ran up three flights to the depressing little room she'd checked into earlier that day. It took her several tries to get the key to turn in the stiff lock and when she eventually managed to open the door, the smell of stale cigarettes assailed her nostrils.

"You'd better stay here, Zophy." The kitten didn't even deign to open her eyes as Hannah lifted her out of the bag and settled her on the shiny counterpane. "And remember, don't draw attention to yourself, or you'll get us thrown out." This time, Zophy opened one eye lazily from under a tufted eyebrow and gave Hannah an affronted look, before closing it again. She went to the cheap pine wardrobe, dragged out her overnight case and snapped open the fastenings. Her wand lay loose in the bottom. She snatched it up without thinking about it and ran back downstairs.

"Here's your jacket. Sorry, it's a bit furry."

"Doesn't matter. Have you got it?"

"Yes, yes." Hannah thrust her wand into the large pocket at the front of her coat. As though it mattered whether she had it or not.

* * *

They walked to Diagon Alley. Dusk was beginning to fall and there was a chill in the air. Neville had been almost silent since they'd left the Physic Garden. He looked as though he had a lot on his mind. She hadn't even _asked_ him about what had happened at school. Hannah's face flooded with heat, and she was thankful it was too dark for Neville to see. Once or twice, when he thought she wasn't looking, she'd noticed him surreptitiously close his eyes and hold onto his ribcage for a moment. She shuddered. What he had been through must have been dreadful compared to her dreary and uneventful months at home with Dad.

"So what's the plan then?" The words came out more abruptly than Hannah intended. She wasn't at all sure that she wanted to go to Diagon Alley, but it seemed as though Neville had taken her silence when he'd first suggested it as assent.

"Um, don't know really. Maybe get something to eat?" he said awkwardly. The decisiveness he'd shown earlier appeared to have deserted him. "N – not if you don't want to …"

Hannah wondered what he was sounding so nervous about. "That's a good idea," she said encouragingly. "Why do we have to go into Diagon Alley, though? Look, there are places round here. I'm not sure I'm …" Her voice trailed off. There was no logical excuse she could give for not wanting to venture into Wizarding London.

"I thought it might be nice for you. You know, for a change?"

"Oh," she replied. "All right then." That sounded ungracious. "I mean, thank you."

_He's going to get me to try some magic_. Hannah wasn't sure if Neville had understood the worst of it. What if she'd given him the impression that her recent inability to do magic was simple lack of inclination? Something that could be fixed in an instant with a reminder of what she would be missing if she left the wizarding world behind her. Hannah hadn't mentioned the day after her birthday, when she'd tried to use _Wingardium Leviosa_ to levitate the washing basket down into the utility room. She'd said the words, been positive that the wand movement was correct. She remembered the rising panic as she realised the simple charm wasn't working, and how her wand had slipped from her hand, almost flinging itself across the room. Her heart had hammered so hard it felt as though it would burst out of her chest. It had taken half an hour to get her breathing back under control. She hadn't tried again.

Neville's voice interrupted her thoughts. "You know, we probably shouldn't be out here by ourselves at this time of night. Are you all right to go a bit faster?"

Hannah quickened her pace to match Neville's, but inwardly she was curious. It wasn't even dark yet. Besides, hadn't she been on her own practically continuously for the last ten months? Nothing had happened. There was no way she was going back to the constant, pressing fear of those first, terrible days, not for anything. There wasn't anyone after her, just as no one had been after Mum. Of course, it was different for Neville, like it was different for Susan. Perhaps it was his own safety he was concerned about. No, Hannah puzzled. That didn't seem to fit either. She'd watched him practice duelling with Harry Potter of all people, and even get past him once or twice. Admittedly, that had usually been when Harry was staring at Cho Chang. Even so, Neville could defend himself better than most.

But he certainly seemed jumpier than she remembered him and not quite so gentle. At one point during their journey back across London, he'd grabbed her arm and pulled her behind him, as a man wrapped in a filthy grey blanket lurched into their path, shouting unintelligible words that sounded like curses. Hannah hadn't been scared then either. There were homeless people everywhere nowadays.

Neville had grown taller during the ten months since Hannah had last seen him across the table in Greenhouse Five. His face was still round and friendly like she remembered, but there were dark shadows under his eyes. She almost hadn't recognised him at first, leaning against the plate glass frontage of the shabby department store, head buried in his book. Although it was stupid, she'd half-expected to see a chubby boy in a Hogwarts robe, with mud under his fingernails. No wonder she was having trouble keeping up. Hannah broke into a run as she hurried across a busy road in Neville's wake. He looked back and smiled apologetically. "Almost there." She hesitated, then grabbed the hand he was holding out to her. Immediately, she could run a bit faster.

Suddenly Hannah felt reckless and joyful, for the first time in months. Perhaps Diagon Alley _would_ be fun. It wasn't as though she had anything better to do for the next few hours. There'd been no sign of her dad at the B & B. That morning, when Hannah had asked him if he knew what time he'd be back, he'd simply replied, "Who can say?" and given her a sad smile. Hannah was used to his enigmatic moods by now and hadn't bothered trying to getting any more information out of him. He'd be OK, he wasn't helpless. She had to try and encourage him to do things on his own, the doctor had said. So, she'd just said she'd see him the following morning, and reminded him what time they needed to catch the train.

When they reached Charing Cross Road, Hannah would have missed the Leaky Cauldron and run straight past. Neville pushed open the door and walked into the pub with an air of confidence that surprised her. Hannah found herself impressed, but also a little downhearted. On the crowded transport systems of Muggle London, the anxious boy she remembered from school, with little discernible talent for anything but plants, had still been in evidence. His uncertainty had been a strange sort of comfort. Now, she was the awkward one, the fish out of water, and Neville was in his element.

She remembered her first ever visit to Diagon Alley, trying to convince her parents that she could see the building described on the odd letter they'd received. How embarrassing it had been when they'd walked in and the entire establishment had stopped what they were doing and simply stared at the tiny group: the pretty young woman in sensible skirt and coat, the short man in a tight and uncomfortable-looking dark suit, and the apprehensive little girl with the fat, blonde pigtails. To Hannah, this outer wooden door had always seemed a bigger obstacle than the hidden archway into Diagon Alley on the other side of the building, even more than the solid wall in front of Platform nine and three quarters. At least on the other side of those barriers were to be found other families, some of them just like her own, rushing about in confusion, paying no attention to anyone else. Not like here. As she followed Neville through the door, Hannah kept her head down.

However, the room was quiet. Looking up, Hannah remembered how empty it had been the last time she had passed through. Business clearly hadn't picked up in the intervening ten months. As they walked through the main room of the pub, the barman called out, "Hey, Mr. Longbottom, you off home now?" He raised one eyebrow and gave a slight leer in Hannah's direction. Neville blushed and dropped her hand rather suddenly.

"Not quite yet, Tom, but I'll be back before closing time."

"Right you are," said the barman and went back to polishing glasses. Hannah hung back as Neville headed for the door that led into the little courtyard behind the pub. She wondered if she could use the excuse of needing the loo. Her stomach was tying itself in knots, her head was pounding and her chest felt tight. As she struggled to compose herself, a cracked voice rang out harshly from a dim corner of the pub.

"Hannah! Is that _you_?"

Almost before the words had registered, she was aware of Neville whirling round and drawing his wand. He pointed it at the table in the corner where the words had come from. There were two shadowy figures sitting at it. Hannah darted forward.

"No! Neville, wait – it's OK!"

"_Expelliarmus_!"

Neville's wand flew out of his hand and scuttered across the sticky floor, coming to rest just before it could roll into a gap in the floorboards. Hannah saw him dive for it again. A tall figure emerged from the gloom, rising from its stool at the little round table. She could see the outline of a wand held defensively at the man's side, as he moved around to shield the owner of the first voice.

"Are you out of your mind, boy? Stop drawing attention to yourself." The voice was low and friendly, if rather tired. "Lower your wand, please. Can't you see this man is a Muggle?" Hannah's eyes were adjusting to the gloom, but she didn't recognise the wizard who had disarmed Neville with such efficiency.

"It's all right, Neville. It's my _dad_!" She rushed round to the other side of the table. "Daddy! Are you all right - what are you _doing_ here?"

Neville lowered his wand and tucked it away in his jacket again. "Who – who are you?" He still sounded wary.

"Don't you recognise me? Perhaps not … You were rather badly hurt the last time I saw you. I don't think we were formally introduced." The tall man held out his hand. "Arthur Weasley. How do you do, Neville? I've heard a lot about you."

* * *

A few minutes later, they were all sitting down, squashed awkwardly around the tiny table. Neville, still looking troubled, was gazing into his Butterbeer and playing with a beer mat. Hannah felt reprieved. The dark pub was warm and safe, compared to the unknown on the other side of the archway. She looked from her dad to Mr Weasley. The wizard towered over her dad, even sitting down, although they both had similar exhausted lines around their eyes.

Looking faintly embarrassed, Mr Weasley drained the last drops of his drink and stood as if to go. "Perhaps it's time I was getting along home."

"If it's possible, Arthur, I would be very grateful if you could stay for a while." Hannah was amazed. While low and cracked, her father's voice was firmer and more distinct than she had heard it for a long time. He sounded almost like his old self, a far cry from the careworn shadow she had nursed for months. "I need to explain things to my daughter and I want her to hear your thoughts on the situation."

"By all means, I won't be missed at home for an hour or two. The way things are at the moment, we're all working practically round the clock." replied Mr Weasley cheerfully. He didn't sound at all reluctant, thankfully. Hannah wasn't sure she could bear to sit through another fruitless, awkward conversation, while her dad ranted and raved and whatever visitor he'd persuaded to stay for '_just a quick one_' tried desperately to get away. Mr Weasley went on. "I must admit, I would very much like to hear Hannah's version of events. It could help confirm my hypothesis."

_What hypothesis?_ She hoped he hadn't been encouraging Dad. That was all she needed.

"Thank you, Arthur. I feel as though there might be light at the end of the tunnel, at last. I can't even begin to tell you how grateful I am." His eyes were beginning to water. Neville looked up at this little speech with a puzzled frown. _Please no_, she thought. _Not here Dad. Not in front of …_

"Dad, you're talking in riddles. What's going on?" Hannah struggled to keep her voice calm. "I knew you were coming to London to see someone about Mum. But you never told me it was a … "

She broke off, the old anger and pain rising rapidly in her chest, an almost solid lump that choked her. When was he ever going to let it go? She'd believed, no, she'd _hoped_, that this mysterious meeting would be the end of it. That the outcome would finally convince him that nothing more remained to be discovered. The accident had been just that, however difficult that was for him to accept.

Her father seemed to be in control of himself again. "It was one of those owls that bring you your post, love," he said mildly. "It turned up with a letter addressed to me while you were at work the other day. It was from Arthur here, after that last one I sent, remember?" His tone was pleading. She nodded, tight-lipped. "I didn't know what to do at first, the bird was just waiting and waiting. Then I remembered I'd seen you paying them, so I went and got a few of those funny coppers of yours out of your room. Seemed to do the trick. I'm sorry, love, I should have told you but – but I didn't want to get your hopes up."

Hannah raised her eyebrows, still not trusting herself to speak, shocked at how close she'd come to losing her temper. Getting angry at her dad wouldn't help. It wasn't his fault he couldn't let go. But hopes? There wasn't anything to be hopeful _about._ Mum wasn't coming back. They had to move on with their lives. He needed a _job_, something to occupy him, not this endless letter-writing and obsessing over the past.

For the first time, Neville spoke. "Er – why you, Mr Weasley?"

"Please, call me Arthur."

"Er – OK. What I mean is, Mr – I mean, sir – I mean A – Arthur, I thought you didn't have anything to do with Muggles anymore? Ron told me you'd been promoted."

"Well, yes, that's perfectly true." Mr Weasley looked pensive for a moment. "It's complicated. As you might expect, there are very few resources going into day to day Muggle liaison at the moment. In my own department, there's only a clerk in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts left – my old right-hand Perkins. They drafted in cover for a while, but the witch concerned went on compassionate leave several months back. The office is pretty much in tatters. A bit of an oversight if you ask me …" His voice trailed off mournfully, then he seemed to realise he hadn't actually answered Neville's question.

"When your father's latest, and most – er – _eloquent_ letter arrived last week, it somehow found its way onto the desk of the Minister himself."

"Rufus Scrimgeour?" asked Neville, wonderingly.

"I gave him what for, didn't I love? Do you remember what I said?" said Mr Abbott proudly. Hannah nodded quickly, in the hope of preventing him from repeating any of it.

Mr Weasley continued. "He requested that I take care of it. His instructions were that I was to meet with your father personally to go over the Ministry evidence regarding your mother's tragic accident. I was to reassure him that the investigation had been carried out '_energetically and in compliance with guidelines set down by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_.'" Mr Weasley said this last bit hurriedly and with obvious distaste.

This time Hannah wasn't even slightly surprised. She might have guessed it would be something like that. It was the same condescending wizarding attitude she'd observed at the inquest. The Minister had clearly planned to palm her dad off with someone who hadn't even been involved in the investigation, although Mr Weasley seemed pleasant enough. He seemed gentler, more softly-spoken, than his children. Although she'd never had too much to do with them, Hannah had always found the Weasleys rather intimidating. Whenever she'd seen them en masse, usually on Platform nine and three quarters at the start and end of the school year, they always seemed to be laughing and shouting and taking up a lot of space. Take Ron, for example, in her own year: she'd always tried to evade his notice whenever she'd encountered him in Herbology lessons or, later, at prefects' meetings. She'd seen some of the quieter firsties in tears on occasion, and once, she was almost certain, she'd heard him refer to Ernie as "_that pompous berk_". Hannah found Harry Potter and Hermione Granger more approachable, despite the former's bizarre celebrity status and the latter's frighteningly high marks. She wondered what made Neville so different from any of them. He wasn't intimidating at all. If anything, she felt as relaxed in his company as she did with Ernie and Susan.

Mr Weasley had begun to make small talk with Neville about his grandmother, and she heard him suggest a trip to the bar. They went up together, giving Hannah time to absorb the situation. Her initial shock at encountering her dad in the company of a Ministry of Magic employee was subsiding. It made sense to make the most of the opportunity, she reasoned. She could barely even remember the wizard who had spoken to her at the inquest, and she had been in no fit state to ask the many questions that later occurred to her. When Mr Weasley and Neville returned from the bar with a second round of drinks, her mind was made up. "Do you have the original documents here? Can I see them?" she asked.

"Not here, I'm afraid. Case files are protected from removal by a number of magical seals and charms. However, I do have a summary of the main points with me."

Mr Weasley handed Hannah a short, tightly-wound scroll. She spread the parchment out on the table and stopped it from springing back by holding it down at each corner with their four empty glasses. She proceeded to scrutinise it closely. It was just as she suspected, it told her nothing she didn't already know. "This summary's no use, Daddy. It's even less detailed than the coroner's report and that's saying something."

"I know, love but wait – "

"I don't understand, it's nearly eight o'clock. I don't see what can have taken you all this time, even if you told Mr Weasley our entire family history." Hannah moved the glasses and let the scroll of parchment roll itself up again. She rubbed her eyes wearily. For some reason, she wished she could grab hold of Neville's hand again. Maybe she just wanted him to stop worrying at that beer mat.

"That's just it, my love." Her dad was sounding dangerously excited again. "Arthur's been asking me all about it, proper questions, you know? Not like that whitewash at the inquest. If any of them had known your Mum, or bothered to find out, they'd have known she – she wouldn't have …" His eyes were misting over again. Across the table, Neville was looking increasingly uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, I'm intruding. Maybe I should leave you all to it?" He swept his shredded beer mat into a little pile and half-stood.

_Please don't go_. "Neville, I'm so sorry. I don't mind you hearing, do you Dad?"

Mr Abbott shook his head. "No, love. You go ahead, explain what happened to your mother. Then Arthur can tell you what he's come up with."

"It would certainly be useful to go over the events once more …" Mr Weasley prompted gently. Neville sat back down.

* * *

So, for the first time, Hannah spoke about exactly what had happened on the day her mother died. She'd gone over the details so many times in her mind that she felt word-perfect but her voice sounded strangely detached, hard, almost. "You remember how I said it was a road accident – a car crash?"

Neville gave a small nod, as Hannah paused, collecting her thoughts. _For heaven's sake. He knows what cars are. Just get on with it._ "Mum was on her way home from work. It was her normal route, the one she took every day. Except, that day, as she was pulling out of a side road onto the main road that leads into our village, a lorry crashed into her. It shouldn't even have been there. There's a bypass for heavy lorries and cars heading for the motorway."

Hannah paused. Then, with an effort, she continued. "During the inquest, the driver's statement said that as he approached he saw Mum's car waiting in the side-street. At the last minute, she just pulled out in front of him without looking."

"As if she would!" her dad exploded. Although Hannah wasn't looking in his direction, she could feel his distress, sense the feverish expression on his face that appeared whenever he relived his wife's last moments. Strangely, Mr Weasley was also agitated, and seemed to be restraining himself from butting in.

"Dad, we've been through this. He was breathalysed. And the traffic lights were in his favour, the camera confirmed it." Hannah looked up at Neville. His face was calm, and he held her gaze unwaveringly. It gave her the strength to continue. "The coroner decided that Mum must have been tired or under stress or something. '_Death by misadventure_' he called it. The lorry driver was completely exonerated."

"What's 'misadventure'?"

'Well … basically, it's the law's way of saying that they thought she did it deliberately, without having to return a verdict of suicide."

"Oh." Neville was silent for a minute as he digested this.

"Of course, we never believed _that_." Her voice sounded positively chirpy. Hannah cursed herself. Then she remembered Neville's nervous laughter when she'd made that crass remark about madhouses in front of St. Mungo's and felt marginally better.

"Hold on," said Neville. "I don't get it. I mean, I don't know about cars and stuff but this sounds all wrong. What about the Ministry? What about _their_ investigation?" To Hannah's surprise, Neville sounded angry. "Couldn't she have been under the Imperius Curse or – or anything?" He was gripping his tumbler of Butterbeer so tightly that his knuckles were white. "They're so _useless_!" he muttered, shooting an apologetic glance at Mr Weasley, who did a good impression of being very interested in his glass of elf-made wine.

"Yes," said Hannah. She just wanted to get to the end of the story now. "They did investigate, or so they told me, anyway. It's here too, on this parchment. At first, I was convinced it must have been some kind of attack on Mum. That she'd been Confunded, or – or something worse. My fault, anyway." She glanced at her dad, worried that he was going to explode again but his eyes were dry and he appeared composed, merely nodding for her to continue.

"But there was nothing. She wasn't under the Imperius, or anything else. And they examined the car. They said if magic had been performed anywhere near th – the body, it would show up. You know what it's like. Magic that needs maintaining for more than a few seconds takes concentration, eye contact usually. The man from the Ministry – not you, Mr Weasley – the one who came to the inquest, he said that aiming a spell into a moving car would be practically impossible. I didn't believe him at first. I was so frightened."

Hannah began to feel the familiar rising, choking panic and took long, slow breaths until she could speak again. "And then he said, '_What makes you think You-Know-Who would be interested in someone like your mother, a Muggle?'_"

Neville gasped. "He didn't?"

Mr Weasley looked horrified. "Oh no, really. That's very serious."

"I don't think he meant to be nasty. He was trying to reassure me, probably."

"Even so … quite unacceptable." Mr Weasley shook his head, still looking outraged.

"When nothing else happened, I realised he was right. And that was the end of it." Despite herself, Hannah could feel her eyes beginning to smart. "I just wanted to put it behind me."

Mr Weasley cleared his throat. "Well, there are two things here. The first is that – er – You-Know-Who _has_ been responsible for Muggle killings. It appears, in fact, that it is fast becoming one of his preferred political weapons."

It was Hannah turn to gasp. "I never knew that!"

"Yes, well,_that_ is precisely the problem, as your late Headmaster repeatedly attempted to bring to the attention of the Wizengamot."

_What did that mean?_ Hannah turned her head nervously from Mr Weasley to Neville, and back again.

"I knew," said Neville bleakly. "It's never in the _Prophet_ – not that Gran gets it anymore – but there was something about it on the WWN last week."

Mr Weasley's voice was sombre, but he spoke with authority. "The Statute of Secrecy is all very well, as a general rule of thumb. The rules governing its relaxation when witches or wizards are born into Muggle families are relatively straightforward. In most circumstances, the current system for communicating general information, relating to schools and transport and so forth, works perfectly well. Are you with me?"

"Yes, go on, please," said Hannah. This was interesting. Neville looked less sure but nodded his head doubtfully.

"However, it's never been ideal, given the attitudes of certain sections of the wizard population. And there is less consensus, even within the Ministry, about the amount of specific information that ought to given out on a need-to-know basis to those living, as it were, on the boundaries of Wizard and Muggle society. It has long been a grey area, a very grey area indeed. In times like these, the implications for the _safety_ of Muggle-born wizards and their families … Well, the war has only thrown the problem into even sharper relief."

"That's what I said in my letter to you! Do you remember Neville?" At last, it appeared she'd met an adult wizard who grasped the bigger picture. Hannah felt vindicated, almost triumphant in fact. Practically every Muggle Studies lesson for three years had ended up with Hannah arguing with the teacher, while the rest of the class rolled their eyes affectionately and passed the time attempting to surprise each other with whatever the latest fashionable hex happened to be. Even Ernie would laugh along uncomfortably and turn his chair away. On one occasion, he'd said to her afterwards, "_Stop rocking the boat, or you'll make yourself as unpopular as Hermione Granger with all that S.P.E.W. rubbish of hers"._

"As I said before, there was a second point." Mr. Weasley paused, thoughtfully. "Politics aside, your mother's death may have been caused by something rather more mundane, although just as unpleasant."

Hannah looked at him in puzzlement. Neville, too, looked completely mystified. Mr Weasley seemed to be struggling with something.

"Muggle-baiting. A nasty word. We saw more and more of it in my final twelve months in the Misuse office. It was the sequence of events in your mother's case that suggested it to me. As both you and your father have now described, it would appear that, far from being under the influence of magic, your mother's behaviour was perfectly in line with her normal, day to day decision-making, apart from one small detail."

"She pulled out in front of a lorry. That wasn't _normal_." Hannah was indignant. "She was a _good_ driver."

"Wait a minute. I've been getting your father to explain about Muggle traffic systems." Mr Weasley was getting into his stride again. "As I understand it, your mother reached the, um, T-something? Ah yes,_junction_, quite so. Then normally, she would wait for a visual signal before turning into the bigger road?"

"Yes, she'd wait for the lights to change."

"And there was a similar set of coloured lights for the _lorry_ driver to observe also?"

"That's right, on his side." Hannah was starting to see where Mr Weasley might be going with this, although a glance at Neville told her that he was still several steps behind.

"Well, at first sight, it seems pretty clear that it didn't occur to the Magical Law Enforcement Officer assigned to the case to look into whether or not these lights had been tampered with."

"And the camera on the traffic lights …?" said Hannah, beginning to feel excited.

"… Confirmed the sequence in line with the only witness still able to give evidence, the lorry driver. Green for him, red on your mother's side. It would be the work of a moment for a witch or wizard, even one without any significant talent, to make the light on your mother's side change out of sequence as she waited or approached the junction. The difficulty, of course, will be proving it, now that the Ministry consider the case closed."

Hannah sat back, her head spinning with this new information. Neville's eyes were narrowed in concentration. Mr Weasley was looking mournful again. He couldn't be going to leave it there, not when he'd just revived her hopes. Of course, it was all theoretical to him. He hadn't known Mum. Suddenly Hannah remembered something. Her heart leapt into her throat again, this time with elation rather than panic.

"Mr Weasley, I'm sure I've heard of a spell that can detect magical traces on objects a long time after significant magical events. Professor Binns mentioned it once in History of Magic. Neville, do you know the one I mean?" Neville shrugged apologetically. Hannah remembered him telling her at the beginning of last year that he'd been lucky to get a D in History of Magic. She looked anxiously at Mr Weasley.

"I believe you may be right, my dear but even if we find it, it's still a question of access."

A phrase came back to her. "He also said it works better _in places and on objects not routinely in contact with atmospheric magic_." Yes, she was sure that was it.

"I must say it sounds plausible in theory." Mr Weasley sounded enthused for a moment, then his face fell. "If only I still had my old job and time to research it. So interesting."

Silence fell around the table once more. Then, in a troubled voice, Mr Weasley changed the subject. "Hannah, I can understand why finding out the truth about your mother's death is important to you and your father and I promise I will do everything possible to think of a way forward." He leaned forward and spoke more quietly, even though there was no one else in the pub except for Tom, who was still polishing glasses behind the bar. "But in the meantime, there is something even more pressing that has concerned me, ever since I read your father's letter and became aware of your isolated situation."

"What's that?" For a few minutes, a chink of light had re-entered Hannah's world. Now she felt dull and listless once again. The pub was no longer cosy and welcoming, but merely dark and oppressively warm.

Neville spoke, for the first time in several minutes. "Your safety."


	4. The Sun Rising

_Massive thanks to my beta reader Suburban House Elf, and gamma reader Whimsy._

**Chapter Four: The Sun Rising**

At Neville's words, Hannah lifted her head, which felt heavier than usual. Her eyes were brimming and she stuck her chin out to stop the tears that were threatening to fall. "Safety? I don't understand …"

She looked at him, bewildered. However, it was Mr Weasley who answered. "Correct me if I'm mistaken … It's my understanding that you and your father are living openly, in a known location, in a Muggle area without wards or defences?" He paused and looked enquiringly at Hannah. Slowly, she nodded. "Under these circumstances, it is possible that you fall under the evacuation scheme for Muggle-born wizards and immediate family. It's a new programme; details have only just been released."

"Gran had a letter about it the week I got back from school," interposed Neville.

It was Hannah's turn to find it difficult to keep up with the conversation, and she was sure that her dad didn't have a clue what was going on. Wearily, she set aside thoughts of her mother's accident and made an effort to listen. "I'm sorry, Mr – er – Arthur. Do you think you could you explain a bit more, please? You see, we've been completely cut off since I left Hogwarts, apart from what my friends have been able to tell me."

"Shocking oversight, quite outrageous," Mr Weasley muttered under his breath. "I was aware that communications had been disrupted by recent events, particularly with Muggle-borns, but even so …" He paused. "I take it you were at least informed of the attack on your former school, and the death of Professor Dumbledore?"

Hannah hesitated. "Well … sort of. Professor Sprout wrote and invited me to the funeral. Of course, I couldn't go. And Neville told me a little bit about the battle in his last letter … " She checked herself, suddenly concerned she might be breaking a confidence.

"Only about what happened to me ..." Neville sounded anxious, and Hannah kicked herself, hard, under the table. "But I didn't say who else … " Neville's voice trailed off, and she saw Mr Weasley give him an approving nod.

"That was wise, in a letter," he said. Neville looked hugely relieved. Mr Weasley shook his head sadly, before rousing himself to continue. "Hannah, the information relevant to your situation is this. Recent intelligence indicates that the events at Hogwarts have triggered a marked increase in the kind of – er – _incidents_ that began just over a year ago."

"When you say incidents …" interrupted Hannah, "You mean …" She found she couldn't finish the sentence. The dread she thought she'd conquered months before – the fear that made her hands shake more than when she was asked to demonstrate a spell in front of the whole class – came rushing back, turning her insides to ice.

Mr Weasley sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid so, Hannah. Unexplained disappearances and accidents, attacks involving the use of Unforgivable curses and so on. While we do not yet know when, or how, the next major attack will take place … The general feeling is that we will, at the very least, experience a stepping-up of _You-Know-Who's_ campaign to dislodge the rule of law by spreading fear and mistrust."

"But we've been on our own for months, no one seemed to think we needed warning. Except …" Hannah remembered Professor Sprout's note that had ended: _Hannah, I know you don't like asking for help, but please, please get in touch if there is anything you need_. Hannah had put this down to no more than an afterthought, an impulse of natural affection towards an ex-pupil. She had written back to her former Head of House, politely assuring her that everything was fine. Now, the brief letter with its final appeal seemed oddly cryptic.

"Are you aware that many wizarding families have already gone into hiding?" Mr Weasley waited for confirmation.

"Yes, my friend Susan Bones."

"Bones. Ah, indeed." The sorrow on Mr Weasley's face deepened.

"And my friend Ernie said he wouldn't be able to write for a few weeks … but he didn't say why. I just thought he'd got tired of answering my letters." That wasn't strictly true. Hannah should have known – perhaps, deep down, she _had_ known – that Ernie would have had a good reason.

Mr Weasley went on. "The Ministry evacuation scheme for Muggle-born witches and wizards and their close relatives covers relocation and travel expenses. The idea is to match vulnerable families with wizarding households that can provide sufficient protection. Anyone can apply, although I am given to understand that those related to witches and wizards in riskier lines of work are to be given priority. Aurors and so on … those on the front line you might say."

She was finding it hard to grasp that her colourless existence of the last ten months had held only an illusion of security. "But according to the Ministry, Mum's death was an accident. Why would they think we're entitled to help?"

Mr Weasley sighed. "That's a reasonable question. What I have heard today is unlikely to be considered sufficient grounds by the Ministry to re-open the investigation." He paused thoughtfully. "Even so, you should have been informed about the scheme. Haven't you received any circulars in recent weeks?"

"Not one since I arrived home," replied Hannah, only now remembering the flurry of leaflets she'd been sent during the previous summer holiday.

"Disgraceful." He shook his head in annoyance. "There is also the fact that while there is a strong possibility that your mother's death was not an accident, it's clear that both you and your father continue to be at risk. Your father's rather visible letter-writing campaign, possibly even our meeting today, may have drawn unwelcome attention. At present, we have no information whether your mother was attacked at random, or deliberately targeted. If the latter, it's conceivable the culprit may strike again. Even families of Muggle-borns who do not fall into the priority categories are being advised to leave the country, or go and stay with relatives, and disclose their whereabouts to as few people as possible." Mr Weasley gave an irritable shrug. "Unfortunately, many of them don't take the threat seriously."

Hannah looked anxiously at Neville who, she was surprised to see, was looking strangely eager for the first time that evening. Her head was whirling as she pieced together his concern about her not having her wand, and his constant, watchful attention. She felt selfish, as well as incredibly stupid. She'd been living in a fool's paradise. Anything could have happened, and at the very least Neville might have ended up in serious trouble for performing under-age magic outside school. But what could she do? She and Dad were helpless. Without her magic, the best thing she could do for Neville, the safest thing, would be to leave him alone. She wasn't his responsibility. "We have nowhere else to go," she said dully. "It's just the two of us. We have very little money, except what I bring in. We can't possibly leave the country."

Neville spoke up, low but determined. "I – I've been thinking about this. One person with magic in the family isn't enough to be safe, Hannah, even – even if you …" He didn't finish the sentence, but Hannah knew he had to be thinking of her idiocy in refusing to carry her wand with her. His face was flushed and he kept his eyes on the table. "And you said there aren't any safeguards around your house either. You'll have to come and stay with us. We've got enough room."

"That's terribly kind," Hannah replied, automatically polite, as she stared into her glass with unseeing eyes. "But I can't ask you to do that." It was a crazy suggestion. Up sticks and move in with a different family? It just wasn't the sort of thing people _did_.

"Hannah,_listen._" She looked up in surprise at the emphasis in Neville's voice. His dark-brown eyes held hers unflinchingly. "It's war time. We're probably going to get allocated someone otherwise. Our house is defended and practically empty, and Gran's a powerful witch. And there's me too."

She could tell he meant every word. Even so … "But I don't even know your grandmother. It's so sudden."

Mr Weasley looked as eager as Neville. He broke in excitedly. "I think it's an excellent idea. The only question is how best to arrange it." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Neville, perhaps you and I go might go and speak to your grandmother and leave Hannah and Mr Abbott alone for a while, give them a chance to collect their thoughts?"

Even though she was breathless at the rate things were moving, Hannah couldn't help but notice that Neville looked vastly relieved at this suggestion. "Thank you, Mr Weas – A – Arthur. Erm … the only thing is … m – my gran."

Mr Weasley chuckled. "I take it you haven't mentioned this offer to her?"

"Not yet. And she's – um – expecting me back by Floo. If we both turn up in the living-room, it might upset her a bit."

"Quite so. Unexpected visitors … never a good idea, especially in times like these. Not to worry, we'll arrive outside. Then you can go in and forewarn her. Are you able to Apparate?"

"Well, sort of … I mean, usually. But m – my birthday's not for three weeks."

Mr Weasley looked taken aback. "And you drew your wand?" His face broke into a broad, mischievous grin, making him look years younger. All at once, despite the almost completely bald head, Hannah could see a striking resemblance to his youngest son Ron. "Most irregular," he continued. "A good thing you didn't get to use it. Mind you, according to my sources, you're another young person in the habit of constant vigilance, which is no bad thing in times like these."

Neville, completely abashed, contemplated the table top again. Mr Weasley got to his feet.

"I take it you have Apparated at least once?" Neville nodded, standing up. "Right then – Side-Along it is. Grab my arm." They Disapparated with a quiet pop.

Hannah turned to her father, who was looking disorientated. "What's going on love?" he asked querulously. "I haven't really been keeping up." She explained the situation as best she could. When she'd finished, her dad looked just as bewildered as before. He homed in on the issue that was closest to his heart. "Does this mean Arthur's going to sort it out … find out what really happened to your mother?"

She sighed, unsure whether he'd taken in anything about the plan to move in with Neville and his grandmother. Keeping a tight grip on her patience, she answered his question. "I don't think so, Dad. He has another job now, and there's …" She stopped for a moment, considering how heavily to emphasise the threat to their safety. She didn't want to overtax his fragile state of mind. Then again, she reflected, he deserved to know how much danger they might be in. "Daddy. You've got to listen to me. There's this war on, in the wizarding world."

"Yes, I know," he said impatiently. "I heard you before." He went back to his favoured topic. "And you think this has something to do with what happened to your mother?"

"That's the point, Dad. The war is spilling over into the M –, the normal world. And yes, there could be something more to Mum's accident. It could be connected, or it might not. Either way, Mr Weasley thinks magic was involved."

"Don't talk down to me, young lady. I knew it all along. Suicide. Absolute rubbish. That imbecile of a coroner. Your mother was perfectly happy."

_I wouldn't go that far_, thought Hannah bitterly.

"All right, Dad, I'm sorry," she said, placating him. "But listen. This is important. In case someone comes after us next, we have to go away. Somewhere we'll be safe, just until things calm down. You can stop worrying now, Mr Weasley's promised to look into what happened and think of something …"

Finally, she seemed to be getting through to him. With a last, suspicious glare, he nodded. "I can see he's a man of his word, not like the rest of them. I'll do what you say, and be patient, if it's for the best."

"OK then." She sighed. She'd just have to wait and see what Neville's grandmother said. From the hints in his letters, she had the idea that 'Gran' was a formidable character. What if she insisted that her grandson's lame ducks had to sink or swim on their own, that she wasn't going to take in a broken-down man – not even a wizard – and a girl who couldn't cast a simple cleaning charm? Even though she'd lived in her own home without any qualms until that morning, Hannah now found herself terrified at the thought of returning, with the knowledge that her mother had been murdered and the person responsible was still at large. She sipped her Butterbeer, enjoying its warmth, trying not to think about it.

Ten minutes later, the others were back. Mr Weasley looked rather shaken, but Neville merely said calmly, "She agreed."

So, this was it. Hannah looked at her dad and squeezed his hand, to make sure he was paying attention. "Thank-you, Neville. It's very kind of her."

"That's settled then," said Mr Weasley matter-of-factly. "I'll set the paperwork in motion at the Ministry tomorrow. You and your father were intending to go home in the morning, is that right?" Hannah nodded. "I suggest you continue as planned, then leave again, as quietly as possible, the same day. There's a small risk, but an unavoidable one."

"OK," Hannah agreed meekly. She felt rather breathless, as though she'd been caught up in a whirlwind. "Is there anything else we need to do?"

Mr Weasley said he would send the forms directly to their new address, so that they could set off immediately. "The Evacuation office won't like it, of course," he said, with a hint of the mischief he'd shown earlier. "Administrators, you know … terrible jobsworths. But they won't be able to object, not when I've filed my report about the way your family has been neglected since your mother's case was dismissed." At this, Mr Weasley's smile disappeared. After a longish pause, he said, "Now, it really is time I was getting home."

However, he insisted on accompanying them back to their hotel first, and they got ready to leave the pub. It was almost eleven o'clock. Neville walked with her towards the little wooden door that opened onto Charing Cross Road. Deep in the pocket of her coat, Hannah clutched her wand, which now felt more reassuring than alien. She couldn't quite believe how much had changed in such a short time, least of all that she was going to be seeing someone from Hogwarts every single day. She was glad she wasn't going to be alone any more, but panic was once again churning her stomach and threatening to fill her throat.

It wasn't just the potential threat to her safety that worried her. Hannah forced herself to be honest. She was terrified of being back in the wizarding world again, of having to re-adjust. She didn't know if she would be able to feel part of that world again; a world she'd thought she'd left behind for good. How would her dad fit in? Her heart sank at the prospect of his idiosyncrasies being exposed to people she didn't know. Was she doing the right thing?

Then she thought back to the inquest. She remembered the lorry driver's blank expression as his statement was read out: '_the car just leapt out in front of me'_. She didn't believe that anymore, nor did she want to. The days of numb hopelessness and blind ignorance were at an end. For the first time since the moment she been told her mother was dead, she had an interest in living, beyond getting through another day of work and taking care of her dad.

As they reached the door of the Leaky Cauldron, Hannah hung back for a moment. "I – I'll see you tomorrow then, at the station?" She wanted to let Neville know how grateful she was, but didn't know how. With her schoolfriends, she would have just thrown her arms around whoever she wanted to thank. Hesitantly she put out her hand and caught his arm as he stood on the threshold, ready to close the door behind them.

"I'll be waiting," he muttered, pulling her into a surprisingly strong hug. For the briefest second, Hannah closed her eyes and relaxed in his arms, her face pressed sideways against the rough wool of his jacket. They let go at the same moment, and she stumbled backwards into the street.

* * *

They were the only passengers who alighted at the little country station. They stood uncertainly on the empty platform, surrounded by their bags. Dad still had the look of frustrated bewilderment that had stayed with him since leaving the Leaky Cauldron the previous night. His hands shook as he fussed nervously with the straps on his battered suitcase.

"There he is, Daddy," said Hannah. Neville was walking down the stairs of the bridge that spanned the railway line. He was wearing jeans and a faded t-shirt, and looked far more relaxed than he had in London. It was early evening. Although they hadn't had to travel very far, the last leg of their journey had been on a slow, stopping train, and it had taken two hours to cover the last thirty miles.

"Hi, Neville." Hannah took half a step forward, unsure of how to greet him.

"Hi," he replied. "Hello, Mr Abbott." He shook hands with her dad and, after a moment's hesitation, gave Hannah a polite kiss on the cheek. She felt herself blush. Stupid. It was only what any of her friends would have done. "I hope you're not too tired. It's not far to walk."

Neville picked up two suitcases, leading the way over the bridge and through the village along narrow, cobbled streets, making conversation with Hannah's dad about the journey. Or rather, she thought, listening while Dad lectured him about declining standards on the railways. She followed behind the two of them, carrying Zophy in her wicker travelling cage.

Hannah said little as they walked, enjoying not having to worry about her dad for once. Instead, she concentrated on her surroundings, as they climbed steadily. She thought back to the empty house they'd left shut up a few hours before. She'd wondered if she ought to leave a note for one of the neighbours, saying that they were going to stay with friends for a while, but hadn't bothered in the end. Most of her parents' friends had stopped phoning or calling round in the last few months. She doubted anyone would even realise they had gone.

Eventually they reached an unmade road, leading out from the edge of the village. A few minutes after that, the last of the cottages petered out, and they turned off onto a smaller path. It was very quiet and the lane bent away almost as soon as it left the road. Hannah felt a surge of recognition, as if she had stepped onto familiar ground. The tingly feeling of deja-vu receded almost as soon as it had arrived. However, the impression that they had slipped across a border into another time and place persisted. The grass had grown high and covered the track, as though it were little used. There seemed to be nothing at all but the quiet pathway and the high hedges on either side.

At the end of the path a narrow stone house came into view, standing on its own among trees, with a view of the countryside beyond. As they rounded the final bend in the lane, Hannah's dad stopped, putting his bags down and turning to face his daughter, a fearful and disgusted expression on his face. "Where are we, love? I don't like it here, it feels wrong. I think we should go back." She felt the familiar embarrassment fire her cheeks, and she stared at him in angry astonishment. Neville looked confused, and put down the cases he was carrying.

"Whatever do you mean, Dad? I think it's lovely – you mustn't be so rude."

They had reached a heavy wrought-iron gate hanging askew on its hinges between dilapidated wooden gateposts. However, the driveway curving up to the white front door was neatly kept. An upright elderly lady, Neville's grandmother she assumed, was standing on the very clean, tiled doorstep.

"Who's that old crone? I'm not going anywhere near her," her dad whispered urgently in her ear.

Hannah was truly mortified by now. She took hold of her dad's hand and tried coaxing him towards the house. As she attempted to reason with her dad in an undertone, she was aware of Neville studiously avoiding her gaze. Then she saw his expression clear and break into a smile. He looked directly at Mr Abbott, who was still resisting all Hannah's attempts to lead him up the drive, and spoke to him in a clear and commanding voice. "Er – could you just walk through here a minute?"

Mr Abbott yanked his hand from Hannah's clasp. She was almost despairing. Why did he have to choose _now_ to have one of his turns? He eyed Neville suspiciously. "Through this gap in the hedge, you mean?"

_Gap in the hedge?_

"That's right," said Neville, waiting patiently as Mr Abbott stepped cautiously through the open gate.

"Oh. It's all different!" Mr Abbott picked up the cases that Hannah passed to him through the gate, and walked briskly in the direction of the house, his reluctance apparently forgotten. Hannah gaped in amazement, and Neville grinned again.

"Standard Muggle-repelling charm. Sorry, I completely forgot."

"I'm _so_ sorry for what he said about your Gran. Was that the charm too?"

"No, a concealment spell. Like they have at Hogwarts, you know. All he would have been able to see on the other side of the gate was a tumbledown old shack and an inhabitant to match."

Hannah narrowed her eyes and gazed towards the house. Ah … now she could tell. The solid lines of the house were overlaid by the image of an ancient hut made of rough stones, almost swallowed up in its turn by a greyish mist of tangled undergrowth. She described what she could see to Neville. "Am I right?" she asked him.

"You mean you can see it?" he said, sounding surprised. "I've no idea what it's supposed to look like. It's one of my grandad's. I'd better strengthen the spells, actually," said Neville, drawing his wand. "They're supposed to get a bit patchy after a while, so Gran makes me renew it every evening." Hannah noted that he had no qualms about keeping his wand in his back pocket here, on his home ground. She flushed again, and rummaged guiltily in her rucksack. She pulled her own wand from the bottom of the bag and shoved it in the belt loop of her jeans.

She watched as Neville tapped each corner of the gatepost and passed his wand over the locks and hinges. Nothing in its appearance changed but he seemed satisfied that the gate was once again a firm barrier. She was at once impressed and disheartened. He hadn't even said the words aloud. She'd missed so much from not being at school this year. Not that it mattered, she supposed, now she'd lost the ability to perform even the simplest of spells. Her hand brushed against the rusty gate as she passed through. It itched where the metal had touched it, and she rubbed at the place absently. It was hardly even a scrape; the skin wasn't broken, and after a moment the tingling wore off.

From the front doorstep, her dad had watched the spells being cast with renewed bemusement. _Oh dear_, she thought, following Neville up the drive. This was going to be difficult.

As they reached the house, Neville's grandmother extended her hand graciously. "Good evening, and welcome. Your father and I have introduced ourselves. You must be Hannah."

"Yes, Mrs Longbottom. Th – thank you very much …" Mrs Longbottom forestalled her stuttering gratitude.

"You may call me Augusta. No thanks are necessary. We are all the better for having you here. Supper will be at seven o'clock, sharp. Neville, take our guests' cases upstairs and show your friend to her room. Mr Abbott, I was making a fresh pot of tea. The kitchen is this way."

* * *

Neville led the way upstairs. Her room was on the third floor, under the eaves. "I'm afraid it's tiny," he said. He was right. A low camp bed fitted snugly along one wall, and there was just enough space for a chest of drawers next to the door. However, the room was fresh and bright; gingham curtains were blowing in the breeze from the open sash window. Opposite the bed was a little door in the facing wall. It was more like a hatch really, the lower part of the frame starting at knee height.

"What's in there?" asked Hannah, sitting down on the camp bed. She kicked off her trainers and wiggled her toes in relief.

"Just the front attic. It's a mess and really dusty, so I wouldn't open the door. But don't worry, we keep an eye on it. We had a Boggart last summer, but we got rid of it. Gran mostly, but I helped." He sounded proud. "There's nothing living in it now except a lot of spiders."

"I don't mind spiders."

"Well if you see one, give me a shout. They're Trevor's favourite. I'll – er – leave you to it, then. Bathroom's downstairs."

"Thanks."

Neville turned to leave and hesitated in the doorway.

"Hannah?" He looked at the floor, twisting the hem of his t-shirt nervously. "I'm glad you're here. It'll be all right. You'll see."

Hannah smiled, grateful to him for understanding so much and saying so little. On impulse, she reached out and caught hold of his hand, which was picking at an invisible loose thread. He held her gaze with the same frank and direct look he'd given her in the Leaky Cauldron. Looking into his dark eyes, she felt a startled jump somewhere in the region of her stomach. It wasn't the familiar panic. Instead, it felt more like the elation of the night before, when she'd remembered about the existence of spells that could detect magical traces on things months or years after the event. She ought to start looking into that as soon as possible. There were bound to be some spell books in a wizarding house. Again, she felt a rush of gratitude, this time towards Neville's gran for her kindness in extending hospitality to a couple of virtual strangers. She would have to find some way of paying their board and lodging. The Ministry evacuation expenses – if they got them – wouldn't go very far.

"Thank you," she said seriously. "For everything." Enjoying the warm pressure of Neville's hand in hers, she wondered how it would feel if he sat down next to her on the bed and … Did she _want_ him to kiss her again?

A disgruntled mewing from the basket sitting on the rug broke the silence. Hannah jumped. "I'd better see to Zophy."

"OK." Neville let go of her hand. "D'you need anything? Litter tray, that sort of thing?"

"It's all right, she's an outdoor cat. Can I take her into the garden?"

"Of course. She won't be able to wander off, it's got spells all round it. Make yourselves at home. I'll see you at supper." He left the room. She heard him run down to the landing below, and a door closing.

Hannah let Zophy out of her cage. She jumped onto her lap, purring.

"You like it here, do you?"

The kitten butted her head under her mistress's chin, demanding to be scratched in the sensitive spot behind her ears. Hannah leaned back against the faded wallpaper and felt the tight spring in her stomach uncurl a fraction.

"Come on Zophy, let's go and explore."

* * *

Neville woke early, sunlight slanting through a gap in his bedroom curtains. It promised to be another beautiful day. He looked over to the shelf on the other side of the room. Trevor's tank was back up there, but the clasp was broken and he was nowhere to be seen. He'd found it lying on the floor when he'd got back from London the night before last. He hoped Trevor was all right. He should never have given in to Gran's exasperated demand to keep him locked up, the last time she'd trodden on him and nearly fallen downstairs. He really must go and find him today. There'd been time for him to wander further afield this time. Neville ran his mind over Trevor's favourite haunts. The last time this had happened, he'd eventually been found a long way from the house, out past the common and heading for higher ground. It would be sensible to aim in that direction first.

He put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. The summer was turning out very different to the one he'd anticipated when he'd arrived home from school after the funeral, still unable to walk unaided. He was used to a slower pace of life when he was home for the holidays, one that suited him better than the frenetic, yet still somehow dull routine of the school year. Although Hogwarts had been generally less uncomfortable this year, at least up until the last few days. In part, he remembered, that was because he'd had Hannah's letters to look forward to every few weeks.

When he'd gone to meet her for their 'date' – he blushed and kicked the sheets in embarrassment – he could never have imagined an outcome like this. Thinking back over the last months, as the backdrop of the war worsened, he could see now that a vague sense of worry concerning Hannah's isolation had been building in his mind while they exchanged letters. He now realised that her letters had contained next to no details of her living situation, consisting mainly of interested responses to things he'd written. He'd always found plenty to say about his sixth year Herbology course with Professor Sprout, and she'd seemed delighted with Neville's fresh perspective on her beloved Head of House. Just as she'd seemed to enjoy the darkly comic saga of Harry Potter's war of attrition with their latest Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Not that the thought of Professor Snape seemed anything like as funny now.

All his unspecified fears had coalesced when they'd talked in the Physic Garden. He shivered, thinking about the depths of Hannah's ignorance about the latest events of the war, and the gravity of the danger this placed her in. He'd thought that the letters meant he_knew_ her … a little bit at any rate. This time, the wave of shame and guilt propelled him out of bed and across the room. He couldn't believe that Hannah had managed to conceal her fears about her father and the future so completely behind a wall of breezy cheerfulness. Only in her very last letter, when she'd been worried about _him, _Neville remembered, had the façade cracked even a little. He noticed vaguely that the stabbing pain in his belly had decreased to a dull ache. That was good; it meant he wouldn't get tired if Trevor had managed to find a gap in the spells.

He began his early morning routine of checking and watering the plants stationed around his bedroom. His _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ was doing very well. It was now the size and approximate shape of a small boulder. The soothing, automatic nature of the work left his mind free to mull over the previous evening. He had to admit that it felt a little odd, sharing one's house with a Muggle. However, it had been Hannah, not her dad, who had looked most nervous when Gran summoned the hotpot in from the kitchen and directed it to the centre of the dining-room table. Mr Abbott had merely helped himself when invited, and tucked in greedily.

The sticky moment had come later, when they had all gone outside for a cup of tea. They'd sat on the verandah and looked out over the garden, the sweet scent of camomile drifting over the lawn in the light evening breeze. Conversation about the journey exhausted, talk had turned to the war and the extra security measures required. Hannah had shifted nervously in her seat, as Gran described the protective spells that needed renewing every day. Mr Abbott had interrupted. "When you gave us the tour earlier Augusta, I noticed a few things round and about that could do with looking at, repairs and so on. The front gate for starters. Then this back door here looks like it could with planing, it's not closing properly. It wouldn't take me too long, if you've got the tools?"

"Dad!" Hannah exclaimed. "You don't understand, the spells are maintained by magic – it's completely different." She looked, if possible, even more embarrassed than when her father had been caught by the charm in the front driveway.

"On the contrary, my girl," his gran retorted, crisply. "Your father has made an excellent suggestion as to how he can help earn his keep while you are both here. Of course, we will be glad to have your assistance on the magic front, we must have a chat about your strengths and talents at some point." Hannah said nothing in response to this, and looked completely terrified. He couldn't really blame her, he supposed. Gran took some getting used to. "Neville, as you know," she continued, "has a particular affinity with the garden and I'm sure you will be able to assist him. The much-needed improvement in his charm-work and defensive spells are also proving invaluable with all the extra tasks lately."

Neville stared, astonished at the second backhanded compliment he'd been paid in as many days. He noticed afresh how she was beginning to look older and more tired this summer. It wasn't right that she was all on her own while he was at school. Perhaps he needed to think about whether to return to Hogwarts for his last year, if it even stayed open.

Gran finished her tea and got to her feet to take the tray indoors, Neville jumping up to help her as she finished her speech. "Mr Abbott, excuse me – John – you are perfectly right. It will make it both easier to renew the spells, as well as making them more effective, if the doors and windows are in better repair. Fixing charms are all very well but they don't last forever. My husband used to keep the property up to scratch when he was alive. His tools are in storage. I will look them out in the morning."

As Neville gathered up the last of the plates and followed Gran inside, he caught a glimpse of Hannah's face, just before she ducked her head in a way that he was beginning to recognise. Her eyes and mouth were screwed up, jaw clenched as tightly as the fists in her lap. He could tell that her dad had noticed nothing, as he continued to munch on his last mouthful of Gran's home-made fruitcake.

* * *

He came back to the present, feeling rather unsettled. Listening out for sounds of movement, he pulled on his jeans and decided to postpone his bath until after breakfast. He rushed past the splashing noises coming from the bathroom, and hurried downstairs to turn on the hoses and check the spells on the garden fence at the same time.

Doing his best to put thoughts of Hannah in the bath out of his mind, he thought instead about what he could do to help her settle in. He had a strong hunch that what she needed more than anything else was relief from responsibilities and problems, whether magic or Muggle-related. He wondered if Hannah would feel like going for a walk later on.


	5. Looking Over the Edge

Chapter Five – Looking Over the Edge 

Augusta Longbottom rapped her spoon impatiently against the boiled egg sitting on her plate. Where _was _that blessed boy? Wool-gathering in the old conservatory, most probably. Somewhere in the garden anyway, she had no doubt. She surveyed her kingdom. For the second time in less than a week, breakfast had been laid out in the dining-room rather than the kitchen. Across the table, the girl's face was scrubbed pink and shining and her fair hair was in tight pigtails – very suitable. She couldn't help but think of – Hannah, was it? – as a girl, despite her being of age. She was so diminutive in stature and softly spoken. With an altogether too pretty face and big blue eyes. For the dozenth time, Augusta was reminded of Alice. At last, she thought ruefully, a reason to be grateful that her grandson was nothing like his father. The girl appeared to know how to behave, at any rate. She was eating her toast and marmalade quietly, her eyes downcast.

Dear, oh dear – another child apparently unable to say boo to a goose. In _her_ day young witches were brought up to be alert and fearless in the presence of adults. But then, she surmised – spending one's formative years without any example from magical folk couldn't give these Muggle-borns much of a start in life. She would have to set an example, just as she always had to Frank's boy. An example which – at long last – appeared to be paying off. At any rate, thought Augusta with some satisfaction, the girl would soon realise there wouldn't be any mollycoddling in this household.

She heard the back door bang shut. For heaven's sake – would the boy never remember that it didn't stay closed that way? Thank goodness the Muggle gentleman had offered to help out around the property. The house had been falling into a worrying state of disrepair. Her grandson had offered to try his hand at mending the front gate but Augusta hadn't trusted the boy not to severely injure himself – or at the very least damage her husband's precious tools. At that moment, the door opened. With a shy smile and a murmured "Good morning" to his grandmother and their two guests, Neville slid into his chair.

"Neville, your food is cold _again. _I would have hoped at least that while we have guests staying with us, you would make an effort to be in time for meals."

"Sorry, Gran, I was looking at what was growing on that volcanic rock in the air garden." As usual, the breathless excuse – so exasperating. "I thought it might be the moss you were wanting for Mrs Leadbetter's poultice. But it's just lichen. There's some really interesting formations though …"

"Yes, well, never mind that now. Get on and eat your bacon and eggs before they fossilise." Augusta almost lifted her wand to reheat the congealing plateful, and then dismissed the thought. The boy needed to learn punctuality.

Neville tucked into his breakfast and the room fell silent again, apart from the scrape of knife and fork on her best china. Something else that irritated her. Frank had always been such a neat and tidy eater. Deft and precise at most things, in fact. Dear, oh dear. Augusta hoped every meal wouldn't be as silent and awkward as this one. Tomorrow she would set the table in the kitchen – and get the little girl to cook breakfast. She hadn't shown any sign of being more than a Muggle herself, thus far.

The girl's father finished his tea – rather noisily – and stood. An odd little man. Well, it wasn't as though she'd had much to do with Muggles at close quarters. Still, it was clear where the girl's reticence came from. Augusta wondered about the mother. The Weasley man had merely said, "deceased, relatively recently", leaving her unsure whether the woman had died of natural causes. Rather young, in that case. Or had she been – it was more than possible – a casualty? She wouldn't be the first among Muggles with wizarding connections, or the last. Blundering around in the dark, most of them, no doubt about it. No more sense than day-old kittens. One had to feel pity. Yes, Augusta was glad she had been able to do her duty, despite the inconvenience.

"I'll make a start then," said Mr Abbott, picking up the box of tools by the dresser. Such a commonplace manner of address. Regrettable, given the girl's – on the whole – not unattractive looks.

"I am most grateful. You have everything you need?"

He nodded. "Oh yes, it's all here. Beautiful set – well-used but in fine fettle …"

"Very good," interjected Augusta. "I hope you won't mind if I leave you to fend for yourself?"

"Not at all, no … not in the least," he replied hurriedly.

Augusta inclined her head graciously. "Please help yourself to tea and biscuits. I will be attending our Witches for the War Effort Committee meeting at Mrs Marchbanks' this morning."

Looking rather relieved, Mr Abbott left the room. Silence reigned, only broken by the sound of butter being scraped onto stone-cold toast and the loud ticking of the grandfather clock.

"Neville, what are your plans for the day?"

Neville gulped his tea, inelegantly as ever. "I need to go and find Trevor. He may have got as far as the Hill."

"That ridiculous toad. I imagine you'll be gone all morning, like last time. In that case, Hannah, perhaps you would like to come with me? I can introduce you to all my ladies. We are a small but nevertheless highly skilled group of retired witches. Today, a Healer is visiting to give a talk on first aid in the field of battle."

The girl gaped, as though Augusta had turned her to stone rather than made a perfectly friendly suggestion. "I – er …" she managed to stutter.

Neville interrupted. "I was hoping you'd come and help me, Hannah. –Two pairs of eyes are better than one and all that."

The girl's face, which had drained chalk-white, now flushed a painful red. Highly strung, there was no getting away from it.

"That – that would be lovely."

Augusta didn't approve of this suggestion. She had hoped to keep the girl and her grandson from spending time alone together. However, she couldn't see a way to refuse, and it was always possible that Neville might choose to defy her again. She certainly didn't want the girl to witness her authority being flouted. She contented herself with a small sniff, to indicate her displeasure, and made a little joke. "Indeed – particularly when one pair of eyes are my grandson's."

At this, the girl's blue eyes flashed with a sudden fire. If she weren't such a meek little thing, Augusta could almost imagine censure in the look Hannah was giving her. Neville meanwhile continued placidly munching. The boy had left his knife butter-side-down on the clean tablecloth _again_.

"Very well, my dear. I'm sure you don't want to sit in a stuffy room and drink tea with a group of elderly women. We'll get to know one another better this evening." Again, the girl appeared stupefied – with terror or stupidity, she couldn't tell.

Fortunately, before the silence could grow any more awkward, Hebe swooped in through the open window. The owl deposited a thick packet in front of Augusta and a thinner envelope on Hannah's empty plate.

She looked through her spectacles at the postmark. "It appears the forms from the Ministry have arrived, my dear. They require both our signatures – we can look at them tonight."

"M – my signature?" stammered Hannah, slitting her own envelope open with her knife. "Not Dad's?"

"Apparently not. What is it child? You look like you've seen a ghoul."

Dumbly, Hannah held out her letter to Neville. He took it, with a surprised look. Even from her position at the head of the table, Augusta could see that the letter was written on Ministry headed parchment. "Do you want me to read it aloud?" Neville asked, hastily swallowing his last mouthful of scrambled egg. The girl nodded.

_Dear Miss Abbott,_

_I am writing to inform you that you have been invited to attend an interview at 11 AM sharp on Monday 14th July, for the temporary position of Assistant to the Under-secretary in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Please report to Reception when you arrive. _

_Yours sincerely, _

_Alastor Gumboil, _

_Personnel Officer, Department of Magical Law Enforcement._

Well now. This was a surprise. Thank goodness – perhaps she wasn't going to have to chaperone the two children for the entire summer after all. Her grandson handed the parchment back to the girl. Slowly, he said, "It must be Mr Weasley's doing."

Hearing this, Augusta's surprise turned to gratification. She didn't know the Weasleys well, but the husband had always given her the impression of been full of bright ideas, if a little lacking in dynamism. And the man did have – what was it – _seven_ children? She sighed. If Frank had the Weasley man's health and strength, by now he'd be head of the Auror office at the very least, and that Scrimgeour goon would be nowhere. Griselda admired him, but Augusta didn't trust the man any more than she ever had that buffoon Fudge. Devious, that was the word. But that was by the by. Whatever the reason, Arthur Weasley – or perhaps that sensible little wife of his – had been intelligent enough to realise the potential – _difficulty_ – of having two unrelated teenagers sharing living quarters, and she was grateful to him.

"But I'm – I'm not qualified …" the mouse-like girl was whimpering. _For heaven's sake._ Augusta broke in, crisply.

"Hmph. It seems unlikely one would need N.E.W.T.S for _this_ kind of work. May I?" Hannah passed her the letter. "Did you take Muggle Studies?"

"Y – yes, I did."

"She got an 'O', Gran," said Neville. "And an 'E' in Charms …" He sounded altogether too proud of the girl.

"Goodness me, Neville. You generally have a hard enough time remembering your own grades." She handed the letter back to Hannah. "Well, there you go my dear. Over-qualified, I'd say."

Hannah was still looking dazed. "But what – what if …"

Augusta had no idea what the girl was still worried about. Lack of self-esteem – is that what Griselda called it? What nonsense. Did_all_ young people lack gumption these days? She got stiffly to her feet – her hip was playing up again. She should have picked up another bottle of Rheumatic Relief Remedy from the dispensary at St. Mungo's the other day. Now she would have to make up her own batch. Better quality, to be sure, but the mixture was one that needed watching and frequent stirring. Standing by a cauldron for six hours would hardly help matters.

"Enjoy what may be your last day of freedom, Hannah. The Hill is a beautiful spot; I only wish I could go with you. However, duty calls." She picked up her wand to begin clearing the table. "Make sure you take waterproofs, it's going to rain. Do you have any?" The girl shook her head mutely. "There's a cloak with a hood that used to belong to my daughter-in-law in the hall cupboard. You're about the same size – mine would trip you up in a second."

"Thank you very much, Mrs Longbottom."

That was more like it. "Augusta, my dear – you'll have me believing you're as forgetful as my grandson." There – she'd just made another joke. What had got into her this morning? Feeling unaccountably high-spirited, she went to the hall cupboard herself to get her best hat and biggest umbrella.

* * *

Sure enough, half an hour later, as Neville and Hannah were walking down the drive, it began to rain with heavy drops that splashed and burst like balloons on the dusty path. "How did she know?" asked Hannah.

"Know what?" said Neville absently. "Oh – the rain." He shrugged. "She always does."

They stopped to pull on the waterproofs. He was carrying Hannah's blue rucksack again but this time, instead of Zophy, it held apples, thick bacon and peanut butter sandwiches and a thermos flask of his gran's sharp but sweet home-made lemonade. When his jacket was on, he noticed that Hannah was struggling with the old-fashioned fastening at the neck of the heavy cloak. "Here, let me." He concentrated fiercely on the clasp and tried not to let his fingers brush the soft skin of Hannah's throat. He couldn't help but notice a warm flush creeping up her neck as he did so.

He stood back. With the heavy lines of the cloak resembling their school uniform and the familiar pigtails, she looked a lot more like the girl he remembered trying not to stare at across the Great Hall at mealtimes. He'd held her hand the other night – so small compared to his but with a surprising strength in its grip. Then he thought about the hug he hadn't been able to stop himself from giving her. Where had _that_ flash of courage come from? Except it hadn't felt like courage. It had felt – inevitable, and as natural as the cuddles he sometimes thought he could remember his mum giving him when he was little.

Maybe there'd be a reason to hold Hannah's hand going up the hill. The path _did_ get a bit hairy in places. He smiled inwardly, as they set off again. _Talk about calculating_. They came to the last of the trees which had provided a small amount of shelter from the rain and struck out across the open moorland. Fortunately, the long, tussocky grass hadn't had time to become waterlogged, so the going wasn't too heavy.

"I think he's probably headed up there." He pointed out the distinctive outline of the tallest hill by far in the surrounding landscape.

"Why does he run away all the time?"

"He doesn't, really. Not at home. He loves the garden, never normally wanders off, although he can if he feels like it. He's annoyed with me – that's why he's gone."

"But he was always running away at school – every year, on the train you'd come into our carriage looking for him!"

"Not _every_ year. It's different at school. It always takes him a few weeks to settle down. He doesn't really like it much."

"Oh. Like you."

"What do you mean, like me?" Neville was bewildered.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean – it's just, your letters … well, you never went on about what fun you'd had in Hogsmeade or mentioned how exciting it was learning Apparition or anything – not like Ernie and Susan." Hannah paused. "Not that Susie liked Apparition all that much come to think of it."

Neville considered. Hogsmeade was OK but more often than not he ended up wandering around on his own. As for Apparition – it had taken him ages, and been really hard work. And then, when he had eventually mastered it, he hadn't been able take his test, so … Neville sighed. He was bound to fail at the end of the month.

"School's all right. I like it better at home though."

"Like Trevor."

He grinned. "I suppose."

"What about your friends – don't you miss them?"

Again, Neville considered. It seemed a little churlish to say that he didn't – not all that much, anyway – to Hannah, who had been cut off from her friends for ages and presumably missed them loads.

"Well, sort of. I mean, they've always got a lot going on. Quidditch and … you know …"

"Since they all paired off," Hannah said sagely. "It happens, I suppose."

Neville was taken aback. He hadn't actually meant that. He'd meant the whole fighting-the-forces-of-evil-thing. But maybe she was right. He'd not seen nearly so much of Hermione since Ron had got poisoned. And even less once Ron had finally provoked Lavender into dumping him. Not that he resented Hermione for it or anything. She'd had a horrible year. The only good thing about Ron getting poisoned had been seeing Hermione back to her usual sane and rational self. The whirling tornado of rage and pent-up aggression had been slightly exhausting to be around.

They'd reached the lower slopes of the Hill by now. The ground was getting steeper and they stopped talking. The rain seemed to be easing. When they next stopped for a rest, Hannah picked up the conversation again.

"So – what about all that?"

"All what?"

"Who've you been out with?"

Neville gulped. His face burned and he was glad that a tricky bit of the path meant that they had to go in single file for a bit. He wasn't used to this sort of frankness. Although, he reflected, in a way it was refreshing, after the mind-games and undercurrents of the past year.

"Me? No one, of course."

"Why 'of course'?"

"Well … I'm just …"

Not fanciable. He didn't want to say it. No need to go putting the words in her head, if they weren't already. Which they probably were, judging by the sympathetic glance she was giving him. Was this where she told him that she and Ernie had _an understanding_ – as his gran would put it? But it seemed Hannah hadn't finished with Neville's love life yet.

"I always assumed you had a thing for Hermione. Or maybe Ginny Weasley – you went to the Yule Ball with her, didn't you?"

"Only as friends. I like her a lot but she's a bit too …"

"Scary?"

He laughed. "No! Erm ... she's nice, but not ... not my type." That sounded ridiculous. It wasn't as though _he'd_ ever be anyone's type. He said quickly, "And anyway, she's spoken for. Didn't I mention in one of my letters what happened after we won the Quidditch final?"

Hannah giggled. "That's right, you did." Then she looked at him slyly. "And what about Hermione?"

Annoyed, Neville felt himself blushing again. _Rumbled_. "OK. I liked her. Past tense."

"So – when did you get over her?"

He was starting to feel like he'd been hit with a Stunning Spell. "Hannah, you really know how to grill someone don't you?"

"I know, I'm sorry. It makes Ernie furious."

They were back to Ernie, marvellous. To distract her, he said, "I think it may have been around the time of the Yule Ball. I realised I never made her cross. The crosser Hermione gets ..." Neville trailed off. He found Hermione's moods alarming sometimes, but he didn't want to criticise his friend to someone who didn't know her very well, and who might not understand how kind and thoughtful she could be.

"The more something matters to her. I've noticed that." He glanced over in surprise. It seemed Hannah was rather an observant sort of person. "You sound like you know her well." There was a wistful note in her voice. _She must really miss her friends_, he thought.

"She was always nice to me. From the beginning."

"I remember – in first year, she was with you looking for Trevor on the train. She seemed so confident. I couldn't believe it when I found out she was Muggle-born, like me."

"Hermione isn't confident. She's just brave."

"Like you." The wistful note was back again.

"You're brave too, Hannah." He thought about how best to broach the subject that had been puzzling him. "Er ... can I ask you something?"

"Yes?" she answered quickly.

"You know this morning – when Gran asked you to go with her …" He broke off as he saw the change in Hannah's expression. This was going to be more difficult than he expected. He gathered his courage. "Why were you afraid?"

"Afraid?" As they trudged up the hill side by side, he could see that her face had gone very still. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, the shutters had come down again.

He persevered. "I know Gran can be a bit intimidating – " Hannah gave a snort. "It's just her way. But you're normally so – well …" How could he put this? "You know how to speak up for yourself. Like the other night with Mr Weasley. But this morning – when Gran said that – you looked like one of the Bowtruckles on the ash tree when they're hoping they haven't been seen."

It was no good. She had stopped talking. The path was getting steeper all the time, which gave the perfect excuse. She didn't seem to need a hand – scrambling up the loose and muddy shale with ease, she moved ahead as though she hadn't even heard Neville's last words.

* * *

Ten minutes later, they came up over the last rise in a rush, out of breath and laughing painfully. The rain had finally stopped and he felt like he was cooking in his own steam. He threw his cagoule off and flapped his t-shirt to cool down. Thank Merlin, he wasn't too sweaty.

"Look, I knew it. There he is." Trevor was a few feet away, sitting in a tiny puddle almost hidden by bracken. Neville approached him slowly. He'd better not try and grab him. Dignity needed to be restored.

"Trevor, I'm sorry." His pet eyed him balefully but didn't leap away. "I _promise_ I won't put you back in the tank if you come home. If you promise me you'll stay off the stairs and out of Gran's potions cupboard." Trevor made a few half-hearted hops into the sunlight.

"You're hungry, aren't you? Look – see what I've brought you. Your favourite." He unscrewed the lid of the jar and tipped it onto the grass in front of Trevor. Before the stunned spider could come to its senses, the toad's tongue shot out and caught it. Neville turned to Hannah.

"I think he's forgiven me." When the trailing legs had disappeared, Trevor hopped back to his patch of shade and rested there, blinking lazily.

"Shall we have lunch here then?" asked Hannah. "What an amazing view."

He smiled. He'd hoped she'd like it.

"What's this place called again?"

"Sacred Hill. Or Odin's Hill sometimes. They're the old names."

She rotated slowly. "It's a pity about those chemical works or whatever they are down there."

Neville frowned. "That's always been there, since before I was born anyway. It used to be different round here, a long time ago. Gran says our village was nearly all wizards at one time – like Hogsmeade … and then the Muggles moved in with their – what do you call them? Minding."

"Mining."

"Millions of them anyway. They spoilt the hill – look, down this way …" He led her to the other side of the level platform of rock, earth and grass and pointed out where the whole of one side of the hill had fallen away.

"Oh." She looked stricken, as though it were her fault.

"After lunch, I thought maybe I could show you a few things we did last year."

"How can we? You can't do magic." The taut, angry look was back and Hannah looked as though she were on the point of flight. He'd just have to take the risk of her running away again and breaking an ankle on her way down – or worse.

"No, I can't. But you can."

She turned her back on him, shoulders set and head down. He went a bit nearer but didn't touch her.

"Don't be afraid. It'll be fine. Don't think I don't know what it's like to be too stressed-out to do magic."

Hannah didn't turn round but slowly her head lifted. "Is that what you think?" Her voice was hard.

Discouraged, Neville nearly gave up. She could end up hating him. He didn't know if he could stand that. He turned away himself and walked a few paces. There was silence for a minute or two. What could he say to let her know he understood? It came to him. The letters. Why she'd kept writing back, even when he'd thought he was just talking about himself.

"Defence, I told you, didn't I – that I got an Exceeds Expectations for my O.W.L.?" He paused, wondering if that sounded like he was bragging. Hannah, he remembered, had been disappointed with her 'A'. "I couldn't believe it. I mean I _hoped_, knew I'd improved, but still …"

Neville had almost looked forward to sixth year, with the comfort of knowing he'd no longer have to suffer Professor Snape. Gran had been disappointed, but he'd been flabbergasted and delighted to scrape an 'A' in Potions. He could only put it down to not having had Snape breathing down his neck during the practical. Finding out the identity of the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had been like losing a Galleon and finding a Knut. "Then I found out who our new teacher was ..."

He'd resolved not to let the miserable git scare him anymore, but old habits died hard. "Snape didn't pick on people as much as he used to in Potions – apart from Harry – but he was still a right …" He stopped himself, Gran's voice in his ear admonishing him about bad language. "I couldn't concentrate properly, anyway. Dunno if I learned anything new since the DA. Maybe if I had … "

_I wouldn't have messed up again_, he finished silently.

He felt a touch on his arm. Hannah was at his elbow. She didn't sound angry any more, just sad. "I wish that was all, Neville. It's not something a Calming Draught will fix. There's something wrong with me. My magic's not working properly. Listen …"

Haltingly, Hannah told him of all her attempts to work magic that had failed. She sounded ashamed, despairing. He knew that feeling. She seemed certain that she'd lost some vital part of her magic – the part over which she could exert her conscious mind at any rate. She told him how she'd come to believe she'd never be able to do magic again. "And I said to myself, it's for the best, because … Well, you know the rest."

Neville was more convinced than ever that he could help her. Somehow, he knew that the most important thing was for her to find a reason to try. "Hannah. Listen to me. Why do you suppose Mr Weasley's fixed up this interview for you? It's so you can research that spell."

"I know that!" Another blue flash of anger, but he wasn't going to be put off this time.

"_H__e_ obviously believes it's worth looking for. What's the use if you can't work the magic when you find it out? What about the accident? Don't you want to know what really happened?" Neville could hear his voice shaking, and he knew it wasn't just Hannah's mum he was thinking about.

Her eyes were as round as saucers at the force of his words. As she stared at him, puzzlement wrinkling her forehead, he saw the tension drain out of her. Then, with a strange little smile, she said in a resigned voice, "OK. I'll try. Are you happy now?"

He was. Neville took a deep breath and with trembling hands, spread his waterproof jacket and Hannah's cloak on the soaking wet grass. "Got your wand?" he asked casually.

"Yes!" she snapped grumpily, but there was a playful light in her eyes now. She drew her wand out of the bag's side pocket and laid it next to the packet of sandwiches Neville was now unwrapping.

As he handed her one, he said, "What's it made of?" The wand was short, like Hannah herself.

"It's oak."

"Mine's cherry."

"Unicorn tail hair core."

"Mine too."

They ate in companionable silence. When they'd both thrown their apple cores over the side of the hill, and agreed that hers had gone the furthest distance, Hannah got to her feet briskly, wiping her hands on the side of her jeans.

"Right then. What do you want me to do?"

"I dunno. Something small."

"OK." Looking nervous, she drew a big circle in the air around where Neville was sitting, then flicked her wand, with a carefully spoken incantation.

"Drying spell?" Hannah nodded, her lips pressed together tightly. "Well, it looked right to me." With the last half-eaten sandwich held carefully in his left hand, Neville felt cautiously underneath the waterproof cloak. Relief and pleasure washed over him. "Dry as a bone."

"Really?" She sounded stunned. She reached down and patted the ground carefully. Then she began to giggle. It was infectious. In a moment, both of them were rolling about on the warm, dry grass, helpless with laughter, Neville still doing his best to hold the sandwich aloft.

"You – you did it!" he gasped.

"I did, didn't I?" Slowly, Hannah's shudders subsided. Tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes. Abruptly, Neville sobered up. He dropped the sandwich.

"It – it's OK, Hannah."

"I know," she said quietly, getting to her feet and turning away. "It's just –"

She pressed her hands to her eyes. Neville stood up. Tentatively, he reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. "It's all right," he said, as gently as he possibly could.

Hannah dropped her hands and smiled weakly, eyes shining through her tears. "Thanks, Neville."

"I didn't do anything." He let go of her shoulder, embarrassed, but Hannah caught hold of his hand as it fell.

"Didn't you?" she said.

The next moment – he didn't know how it happened – she was in his arms. She was sobbing again, luxurious, happy sobs that were strangely close to her earlier laughter. After a few moments, they subsided, but Neville went on holding her tightly, stroking her hair, unsure whether the motion was comforting him or Hannah more.

Eventually, she disengaged herself, sniffling and digging in her pocket. "I must look a sight," she said. "Oh, blast it, I can't find my tissues."

"No problem," said Neville proudly. He drew a clean white hanky from his pocket and handed it to her, silently thanking whatever deity had been responsible for him remembering for once.

"Wow. I didn't know people still used these things," said Hannah, dabbing her eyes and blowing her nose loudly.

"Gran's a bit old-fashioned."

"Sorry about this. All I seem to do since we met again is cry."

"Don't worry about it," said Neville airily. "I have that effect on people." It was a weak attempt at humour, but it seemed to do the trick. She looked at him in disbelief, and then gave a hiccup of laughter.

"I'm OK now. Do you think I should try something else?"

"Definitely. Why don't I tell you how to cast a Muggle-repelling charm? We might as well have the place to ourselves for the afternoon."

"That's a great idea," said Hannah delightedly.

"Then, you can do something about this flask if you like. I've no idea how Gran manages to screw the lid on so tight."

* * *

For the rest of the afternoon they worked on the deserted hilltop. Neville described every bit of Defence theory and counter-curse they'd studied in the past ten months that he could remember. Hannah seemed to be enjoying herself, her confidence growing in leaps and bounds as she successfully mastered spell after spell. At times she almost seemed to guess what he was going to say before he could get the words out, anticipating an incantation with uncanny accuracy. He found he was enjoying himself too, just watching her and correcting her attempts at copying his vague instructions. Of course it would have been loads better if they'd been able to practice together. He itched to try out some of the things he was demonstrating. Wand movements that had seemed impossibly complicated under the disdainful scrutiny of Professor Snape seemed to fall effortlessly into place as he thought about how best to translate them to Hannah.

"Were you always this good?" he asked, when at last they'd exhausted his store of knowledge. They sat down for a rest and Hannah gulped down the last of the lemonade. The midday sun had burned all the clouds away and the air was still hot on the hill top as the sky turned pink and orange behind Coldfall Woods.

"I've never been what you'd call _good_," said Hannah doubtfully. "Not compared to you lot."

"What _lot_ is that?" asked Neville, grinning. "Harry Potter?"

"Not just him. Hermione, the Weasleys – _you_."

He supposed she felt she had to say that. "You seem pretty quick to me."

"Well … I'd win at duelling practice with Ernie and Susan sometimes."

"Sometimes?" asked Neville sceptically.

"Really – I'm useless under pressure. I freeze up, or worse. But – you explain things really well and you don't rush me." Hannah sighed. "Of course, this isn't nearly enough. None of this stuff is going to stick if I haven't done any of the set work."

"Well, you can look at all my coursework if you like. It's not up to much though. 'Cept Herbology."

"Do you ever stop running yourself down?" Hannah scolded, nudging against him playfully. He nudged back, enjoying the sensation of her warm arm and shoulder against his.

"You're a fine one to talk Miss-I-Can't-Do-Magic-Anymore," he teased. It worked. She laughed and her cheeks went that lovely pink colour.

"Fair enough." Then she looked serious again and said in a puzzled way, "It's funny, I feel so different here."

Neville thought about it. "A lot's changed. You're not alone anymore, without any magic happening around you. Maybe it's in the air …" He trailed off, fearing sounding stupid and fanciful. Gran was always scolding him.

"That's right." She turned to face him. Her blue eyes were still red-rimmed but she was smiling. "I feel different when I'm with you. Braver. Not dozy Hannah, the hysterical 'Puff who can't cast a simple Transfiguration spell without disrupting the entire exam hall."

"You're not dozy!" Neville was outraged. Then, with a rush of shame, he remembered the jokes that had gone round the common room during the O.W.L.s. Had he laughed? He couldn't remember. "You know what they say about me, don't you? The bloke who can't even stand a cauldron the right way up."

"Not any more they don't," said Hannah angrily. "Not after what happened at the Ministry. And I bet they think you're even cooler now – after, you know ..."

"I got injured didn't I? Not Ron, not Ginny – I'm still the only dope who can't stay out of the way of a curse to save my own skin, let alone help anyone else."

Neville sat down and folded his arms around his knees. He felt angry and useless all over again. The faint burning pain in his belly reminded him of his inadequacy. Hannah sat down next to him. "Can I see it?"

"See what?"

"Where you got hurt."

Neville went rigid with shock. "Wh – why?"

"I don't care what you say. I think you're a hero – and I bet Harry Potter and the rest of them do too. Let me see."

Slowly, Neville leaned back until he was reclining against the bag filled with the empty sandwich wrappers and the waterproofs. He pulled up his t-shirt, looking away in embarrassment. Then he felt Hannah's hand on his cheek, gently pulling him round to face her.

"It's horrible," he said, unwillingly looking down at the ugly web of scar tissue, still red and raised, despite Madam Pomfrey's best efforts with the Murtlap Essence.

"It's not. It's part of you," said Hannah gently, putting out her finger to trace the angry lines where the Blasting Curse set off by the huge Death Eater had sliced past him and glanced off – only by throwing himself violently to one side had he avoided being ripped in half.

"It was _Reductor_ wasn't it?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice, as she still had her hand resting lightly on his stomach, almost as though she'd forgotten it was there. He felt a shudder go through her. "I keep remembering that one Parvati did last year," she said.

_You think I don't?_ He put his hand over hers. The warm fingers of the late afternoon sun soothed his bare skin. Her face was very close to his, silhouetted against the backdrop of darkening sky. Could he? At that moment, Hannah again gently disengaged herself, withdrawing her hand with a last tantalising sweep and rolling his t-shirt down. _Don't start getting ideas_, he thought. _She just feels sorry for you_.


	6. Tread Lightly

Chapter Six – Tread Lightly 

Hannah was sitting, knees together, on a very spindly chair that felt as though it was held together with the flimsiest of charms. She had checked in her wand at the Security desk in the highly polished entrance hall of the Ministry for Magic, feeling a surge of pride as she did so. Unfortunately, that brief flicker of confidence had blown itself out fifteen minutes ago.

Mr Weasley had followed up the official summons with a brief note the previous evening, saying that the interview for the position of Assistant to his former colleague Perkins in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts was mostly a formality. As long as Hannah brought her O.W.L. certificates with her, there should be no problem. Even so, she had thought it prudent to arrive early, taking the first of the offered Floo slots detailed at the bottom of the letter from the Personnel Officer. This meant that she still had _another_ quarter of an hour to wait and kick her heels.

As she sat twirling her wand restlessly between her fingers, Hannah couldn't prevent a slow smile from creeping over her face. When she and Neville had returned after sunset the night before, Mrs Longbottom – Augusta – had been waiting in the kitchen. After a stiff, "Good evening", she'd looked them over sternly before sending Neville back outside to do his evening rounds.

* * *

_What time do you call this?_ Neville's gran didn't say it out loud, but Hannah could almost see the words hanging in the air. The kitchen was filled with steam issuing from several pans boiling on the stove, and a wonderful smell was emanating from the oven. On the way home, Hannah had been looking forward to supper rather anxiously. Since arriving, she'd found it almost impossible to eat in the oppressive atmosphere of the dining-room, ending up with indigestion after both meals. Tonight, she was relieved to note that five places were set at the scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the kitchen, with thick white plates and plain cutlery. Resisting the temptation to sink into the nearest chair, Hannah asked if there was anything she could do to help.

"Can you cook, child?"

"A little."

"In that case you can slice the mushrooms – thinly please. And the leeks – they need careful washing of course."

Augusta handed her a paring knife. A little uncertainly, Hannah set to work on the mountain of mushrooms piled on the draining board.

"What are you _doing_ girl? Set the knife off and then get to washing the leeks. Only water will do, cleaning charms make them go soggy."

"Sorry," Hannah muttered, feeling mutinous. The old bag. She didn't know how Neville put up with her. And the way she kept_getting_ at him the whole time, what was _that_ about?

How on earth was she going to do this? Hannah took her wand out of her pocket and racked her brains. As her gaze flickered nervously between the knife and the pile of mushrooms, it came to her. A basic hover charm – combined with – yes – _Diffindo_. If only she'd learned how to do that fancy non-verbal stuff. Hannah laid the rest of the mushrooms out neatly on the chopping board. She murmured her chosen charms as quietly as possible while concentrating hard on beautifully thin slivers of mushroom, and was both surprised and gratified when the knife obeyed her without hesitation. Behind her, she caught a glimpse of Augusta in the act of turning quickly back to her business with the Aga. Smugly, Hannah picked up a different knife, split the leeks down the middle and made a lot of noise running the tap and plunging them into the icy water.

* * *

Yes, she mused, supper had been a success. Dad seemed to have had a good day – he'd finished the back door, and glowed with the satisfaction of a task completed. It had been wonderful to see. Maybe he'd get properly better now … Hannah sighed, and twisted her wand nervously in her fingers. The improvement wouldn't last if she didn't get this job and start finding out the truth about Mum. He was relying on her. Still, it was getting easier now they weren't on their own. She was beginning to think she could be comfortable in this house. Feeling proud that she'd contributed to the meal, she ate heartily, sneaking covert glances at Neville across the kitchen table.

A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth again and a passing wizard glanced at her curiously. She couldn't help herself; the thought of Neville filled her with a feeling of warmth that started in her tummy and spread all the way up to her cheeks and down to her toes. Hannah wasn't a complete stranger to herself. She was perfectly aware that her interest in Neville's friendships – or otherwise – at school had not been entirely innocent. Not that she'd learned a great deal. He'd been impossibly guarded – typical Gryffindor. Typical _boy_.

Far more revealing had been the way he'd opened up about school on top of the Hill. She'd heard, like everyone, the murmurings over the years about how the Potions master had favoured the Slytherins and bullied the Gryffindors – Neville worst of all, if the rumours were to be believed. By all accounts, it had been comparable to the treatment certain of her Hufflepuff classmates had suffered – usually Justin for some reason – only multiplied a hundred times. For herself, she'd kept her head down, hidden in Ernie's substantial shadow, content to forego Professor Snape's rare approbation in order to avoid the spotlight of his scorching contempt. However, Neville had said hardly a word about that. Instead of blaming anyone else for his difficulties, he'd talked about his own inadequacies. If it had been anyone else, she'd have suspected their motives. Somehow, with Neville – especially now having met his fearsome grandmother – Hannah had known immediately that his words revealed an understanding of her situation deeper than the honest, hamfisted attempts at sympathy she'd always received from more sanguine friends, whenever she'd made an idiot of herself in end of year tests. She'd felt an instinctive tug of sympathy, of recognition, along with sadness at his resignation. It made her want to tell him how brave and impressive he appeared to her, but she was afraid he'd think her scary and intense – more than he probably did already, she thought ruefully – or worse, insincerely flattering.

Whatever his reason for telling her, it had helped, and she'd found it astonishingly easy to confess in her turn. After that, his mention of Mum's accident, which from anyone else would have caused her to tense up and shut down again, had galvanised her. For a brief moment, she'd allowed herself the possibility that her magic might not be lost forever but was still in her, somewhere. She'd cast the first spell, comforted by knowing that he was there, that he understood and wouldn't judge or make fun of her if it went wrong. With Neville by her side, she'd welcomed the return of the odd tingle setting her teeth on edge – the sensation of magic flowing through her veins that was almost nausea, without letting it overwhelm her. When the spell had worked, he'd laughed with her, as though her success meant as much to him as it did to her.

She'd breathed lungfuls of fresh, clean air, and felt the grass underneath her. For the first time since she'd been called out of Herbology and taken to Professor Dumbledore's office with foreboding like lead lining her stomach, she was glad to be alive. She remembered Neville's hand on her shoulder, and stumbling towards him when she'd begun to cry – gut-wrenching tears of relief from the cold, almost physical ache that had weighed her down for ten long months. His arms had opened, hesitantly, and she'd relaxed into them gratefully, as hot tears ran down her cheeks to soak into his shoulder. The remaining tension had dissolved, dissipated. The warm fingers of the afternoon sun soothed and caressed, soaking comfortingly into her back, as they hugged without shyness or restraint. She'd had to force herself to pull away in the end. She could have gone on snuffling into his shoulder for ever, feeling the solidity of his body against hers; not unlike her friend Ernie's and yet, somehow, completely different.

Hannah was enjoying this train of thought, even though it felt dangerous. Hours later, Neville had opened up to her a little more. It hadn't been morbid curiosity that made her ask about his scar. No – she admitted it to herself – it was her clumsy attempt to show him the hero he was fast becoming to her. The hero Neville clearly didn't believe himself to be. It had been tactless of her. Was that the full story? If she was honest, she'd also wanted him to see that she was … _interested_ … and, yes, touch him again. She hugged herself, thinking about the smoothness of his skin beneath her fingers, marble-pale except where the tracks of the curse had marked him. If he had died … Hannah shivered on her chair in the chilly depths of the Ministry of Magic, hundreds of feet below the sunlit London pavements. Then warmth returned as she remembered the swoop in her stomach as Neville had placed his hand over hers. For a moment, she'd dared to hope that her liking wasn't entirely one-way. She'd backed away half-expecting him to catch her hand to pull her down towards him. But he hadn't.

Remembering it, Hannah's mood plummeted, and her stomach clenched again. The familiar, panicky feelings of self-doubt, never too far away, had crept their way back under her skin. Flustered, she'd stood up, grabbed her bag, and plunged down the hill as fast as she could without waiting for Neville. She sighed. It was time to face facts. Why would someone so brave and unflinching be interested in a timid, shrinking misery like _her_, at least given her current form? He probably thought of her presence in his house as a complete nuisance, an invasion of his private space that would have to be tolerated for the next two months. After yesterday, he would think she was unbearably nosy into the bargain.

Hannah was under no illusions. She knew only too well that if boys didn't find her nervy, intense manner off-putting, they found her comical, like the boys in her house, Justin and Zach. Well, perhaps not _all_ of them but … Hannah pushed the thought of Ernie away again. It hardly helped that she didn't have the confidence instilled by privilege of birth. The daughter of an unemployed plasterer and a dead primary school teacher was never going to impress anyone, least of all Neville's haughty grandmother. '_And what do your parents do? Oh really, how fascinating.' _ Eyes would glaze over, move onto someone more interesting. She'd had enough of that when she'd gone with Susie to stay at Ernie's during the summer of their second year. Besides, she thought drearily, a wave of hopelessness washing over her … she was already risking bringing trouble down on Neville and his gran by taking advantage of their shelter and protection. Yes, she had to be realistic. It made sense to hold onto her background, her identity. One day she would find a normal boyfriend, not even a wizard, a _Muggle_. That would be the sensible thing to do. _Give it up_, she thought angrily, _he's better off without you_.

"Excuse me? Miss Abbott, the Personnel Officer will see you now."

* * *

Nobody was in the living-room when Hannah stumbled out of the fireplace an hour later. She stood in the middle of the room undecidedly. From somewhere above her came sounds of hammering. Dad working on the upstairs window frames. She wandered through to the kitchen at the back of the house. There was no sign of Neville or his gran. Then she remembered that at breakfast Neville had mentioned something about potting herb cuttings and went outside, closing the back door with a soft click behind her. The sun was shining and there was a soft breeze. The clouds were high in the sky, with no threat of rain in them today.

Hannah ran across the lawn. The vegetable and herb garden was out of sight of the house, behind the fruit trees. In the far corner, under the overhanging branches of a large apple tree, stood an old wooden and glass greenhouse. Neville had pointed it out to her when he'd shown her round two nights earlier. "It used to be full when Granddad was alive," he'd explained. "I've got loads of plans for restocking when I've finished with school. I need to cut back the tree first though. It's in too much shade to be much use at the moment, but it's a good place to work."

She ducked under the branches of the apple tree and pushed open the door of the greenhouse. It was almost dark inside and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. The air was cool and dry on her cheeks and there was a pleasantly earthy smell. Neville had his back to her and didn't seem to have heard the door opening. He was at the end of a long workbench, engrossed in what he was doing.

"Neville," she said. He jumped and spun round.

"Hi!" he called, brushing his hands together and wiping them on the front of his jeans. "How'd it go?"

Hannah felt her face break into an involuntary triumphant smile. She clasped her hands together and jumped up and down a couple of times. "I got it!" she squeaked, jumping up and down again and doing a little twirl for good measure. "I aced it! He asked me about a billion questions on Muggle technology and Muggle 'relations'." She rolled her eyes. "And I answered them _all._" Coming down to earth from another bounce, she thought for a second. "I think I told him more than he wanted to know, actually."

"That's brilliant," said Neville, moving towards her. "Well done – I told you it'd be fine, didn't I?"

"I know you did, but I still can't quite believe it. Then he showed me the most common Memory Charm I'll need to know. I have to practice it for tomorrow. I don't think it's _that_ hard – will you test me?"

Neville laughed. "If you use me, how'll you know if you're doing it right?"

As he came within reach, she grabbed his arms and started jumping again. "Something to _do_, something interesting, at last. And_money_. Thank goodness, I was so worried."

He looked so pleased for her that she stopped bouncing and threw her arms round him without thinking. Abruptly, they both stopped laughing. _I don't care_, thought Hannah, standing on tiptoe and lifting her face up, so that she was staring directly up into Neville's eyes. In them, she read fear and a question. The air was still in the quiet, cool dimness of the greenhouse. She replied by relaxing her grip, as though to step away. Immediately, he slipped his own arms under hers, catching her around the waist and pulling her towards him, causing her arms to loosen a little more. But she didn't let go, reaching up instead and fastening them around his neck. Their faces were very close together, and she smiled at the determination in Neville's serious-eyed gaze. He bent his head and kissed her tentatively on the mouth. She felt dizzy for a second, and almost lost her balance. He took her weight, pulling her even closer, so that she was leaning against him. She closed her eyes, willing him to kiss her again. When he did, she parted her lips daringly, almost imperceptibly. At once, she felt him shiver and tense up.

"Is – is something wrong?" she asked nervously, opening her eyes.

"N – no," he answered. Then he spoke again, more firmly, "Nothing's wrong. I've just never done this before."

"Neither have I. But I want to – do you?"

"Yes." Quite definite this time.

"Then we'll figure it out together, shall we?" said Hannah, giggling a little out of nervousness.

"I – I don't want to get it wrong." Neville sounded younger, and scared all of a sudden, and it gave her confidence.

"You won't," she said, wondering why she felt so certain. They kissed again, softly at first. Neville leaned back against the edge of the potting table to steady them both, and she felt his hands move up her back and push themselves into her hair. Momentarily Hannah wondered if he was getting earth in it, when she felt fingers stroking the nape of her neck and forgot everything, except his mouth on hers, and his hands holding the back of her head. Gradually, it dawned on her that without even realising it, one of her knees had found its way between his and was now pressing against a sturdy thigh. How had _that_ happened? Neville broke off kissing for a moment and stared wildly at her. His cheeks were flushed pink and she had the impression that if he'd still been standing, _he_ might have lost his balance this time. She dropped her lashes, embarrassed. "Sorry," she muttered.

"_Sorry_?" was all Neville said.

How long they stayed there, she had no idea. They might have gone on kissing indefinitely, as now they had started Hannah couldn't think of a good reason ever to stop, but long before they'd run out of different things to try, the door creaked behind her. Neville lifted his head, after one last kiss on the corner of her mouth that sent a warm shiver down her spine. She twisted her neck round. "What is it?" she asked.

"S'OK – it's just your cat," replied Neville, dropping his head again. However, a disgruntled mewing, lengthening into an outraged wail, interrupted them.

"I'll get rid of her," said Hannah, relinquishing her hold on Neville with reluctance.

As she turned, she saw the kitten crouching, tensed to spring, gazing intently at something behind a pile of terracotta pots in the corner of the greenhouse. "No! Zophy, come here!" she gasped. "I think it's Trevor."

"Oh, right." Neville sounded totally unconcerned. "He was around earlier," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't worry, I think they've already met. Anyway, he can look after himself, you know. He's dealt with plenty of cats at school."

"But Zophy's a moggy. She chases small animals – birds, mice – you name it!" cried Hannah, frozen in an agony of apprehension. Neville reached for her hand and pulled her back round to face him.

"Hannah, you've been here two days, d'you honestly still think that's an ordinary cat?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look at them."

Trevor had hopped out from behind the pots and was making his way towards the door, still being watched intently by Zophy, who was making no effort to pounce. Halfway there, Trevor paused, as though waiting. The kitten stood up and tripped politely after the toad, following him out of the door. Hannah looked at Neville in puzzlement. He grinned.

"Trevor's quite intelligent you know. I think he just told your cat to leave us alone."

Even though it wasn't particularly funny, Hannah giggled, a little hysterically. Neville joined in and put his arms around her again. As the wave of laughter subsided, she felt weak and a bit shaky, and was glad she could press her face against his chest, hands knotted in his jumper, breathing in the scent of the herbs he'd been potting before she arrived, mixed in with another smell that was starting to become familiar. She was quite unable to wipe a silly grin from her face.

"Maybe we should get back. It must be nearly lunchtime."

"Mmm. S'pose," said Neville indistinctly through a mouthful of Hannah's hair.

"Your grandmother'll be cross if you're late again."

"True." They let go unwillingly.

"I don't think she likes me."

"Rubbish." He dismissed this. "How could she not?"

* * *

At dinner that evening, Neville could feel his gran's eyes on him, as he did his best to act naturally. There was no chance of fooling her, he knew that much. She'd had to go out again after lunch to supervise changing Mrs Leadbetter's dressings. Gran was no Healer but she was the most skilled witch for miles around with remedies and potions and such-like. It kept her busy. In the normal way, he would find more than enough to do during the long summer days while she was out and about. His main job was to tidy up the garden, to make sure it was manageable and useful for her by the time he went back to school. That's why he'd been propagating the herbs that morning, so she'd have a plentiful supply for her customers for the rest of the year. Loads of time had been wasted while he'd been – Neville frowned – '_convalescing'_. He was still way behind, and it seemed that catching up might not be as straightforward as he'd thought. His timetable for the week hadn't included losing an entire afternoon. Gran was going to have his hide.

He'd gone back out into the garden after lunch with Hannah in tow, a half-formed idea in his head of finishing off the herbs together. Then, perhaps, he'd start one of the other fifty jobs on his list. But maybe, just maybe, they'd kiss again … He hadn't wanted to count his chickens. It might have been a one-off. She might have been overcome with the success of landing her first job, she might have thought better of it … his imagination ran into horrific territory. She might – _please, Merlin, no_ – she might have hated it and never want to go near him again.

He thought how daft that seemed now. He couldn't understand what he'd been so worried about; Hannah's face had been wreathed in smiles all through lunch. Some hours later, Neville found himself grinning in exactly the same way, and quickly ducked his head to contemplate his boiled potatoes. He remembered standing in front of the potting table, and going into an explanation of what needed doing. Hannah had been next to him, nodding virtuously and asking sensible questions. Somehow, without quite knowing how it happened, his forearm had come into contact with hers on the rough, wooden surface. His voice had faltered, as he pressed his elbow and then the rest of his arm closer. From there, it was the work of a moment to turn and face each other, another moment for both arms to break contact and slip around the other's waist. Then they were kissing again, and he'd got as far with gardening that day as he was going to get.

He speared a runner bean and paused with it half-way to his mouth. He wasn't all that hungry. He caught Hannah's eye across the table for the dozenth time and quickly looked away. He couldn't quite believe his luck. He had to keep looking at her, just to check that he hadn't fallen asleep in the greenhouse that morning and been dreaming ever since. Neville had watched the antics of his classmates that year with a kind of wistful detachment. He hadn't even envied them – well, not really. Ron writhing around all over the common room with Lavender, Harry upping and kissing Ginny Weasley in front of the whole world … Such happenings had seemed a million miles away from his realm of experience. And yet, here he was, having spent the whole afternoon snogging a girl just as – no _more –_gorgeous than any other girl in the year.

"Neville – are you going to eat that, or just wave it around aimlessly?" His grandmother's voice was exasperated.

"Um, sorry Gran. I've – er – had enough thanks." He caught Hannah's eye again and nearly dropped his fork onto his plate. She had, quite deliberately, raised her left eyebrow and then winked at him.

Augusta, sitting next to her, didn't need to see the eyes Hannah was making at her grandson. It was written all over his face. Too late. Far too late. She sighed. Damage limitation, that was all she could hope for now. Thank goodness the girl was going off to work tomorrow. Augusta frowned. She might have been mistaken about the child, who seemed to have a little more get up and go than had first appeared. She would reserve judgement for the time being.

And in the morning, she would have that conversation with her grandson; she'd put it off long enough. Let no one say that Augusta Longbottom shirked her responsibilities – her duty – however uncomfortable.

* * *

"'Bye then."

"It'll be fine. See you later."

Neville wished he could give Hannah a hug; she looked so forlorn and anxious standing in the fireplace. With Gran and Mr Abbott flanking him, that wasn't on the cards. Her father kissed her on the cheek. He didn't see how he could even do that without arousing suspicion. The day ahead stretched in front of him, featureless and dull. He wondered how life had ever seemed interesting before Hannah had moved into his house and decided that she wanted to spend all her free time kissing him. He tried to hold back a grin. It wasn't as though making opportunities for kissing had fallen entirely to Hannah. Getting her to help him make the tea after supper, while Mr Abbott held forth to Gran about dry and wet rot, had been entirely his own idea. He knew that the old-fashioned kettle took at least ten minutes to boil on the Aga.

Hannah vanished in a whirl of green smoke. Her dad muttered something about making a start on the front gate.

"Help Mr Abbott take his things outside, please Neville," said Gran. "Then lift the spells. Just between the gateposts please, there's no need to advertise our presence to every passing yobbo." Neville wondered when Gran had last used the front gate and the path to the village; he doubted they had more than one or two passers-by a month. Her voice stiffened slightly. "After that, I want a word with you. I've put off Mr Nazenby until this afternoon, this is more important. I'll see you in my room please."

It was on its way then … the row. At least she couldn't send him a Howler at home. He picked up the large mallet standing by the front door and followed Mr Abbott out into the drive.

A few minutes later, he was standing at the door of Gran's bedroom. It was on the same floor as his, looking out towards the trees at the front of the house rather than the back garden. He was rarely invited in, and always for the same reason. The door was ajar but he tapped on it anyway.

"Come on in, love." She sounded weary but not angry, rather milder than usual if anything. Neville pushed open the door. His grandmother was sitting on the edge of her bed, rumpling the faded rose-printed counterpane. That was strange enough in itself. Gran was a stickler for tidily-made beds. The room was wide and light, uncarpeted except for the Chinese rug in the bay window, too old and precious to be walked on.

"Hurry up, boy, come and sit down … no, wait. Before you do, I'd like you to bring me the drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe." He walked over to the heavy, mahogany wardrobe and opened the door to see all his grandmother's dresses hanging there, predominantly bottle-green and navy blue – serviceable colours, she called them.

"I don't see a drawer, Gran. There's just a row of Granddad's old boots."

"Of course not, Neville," she answered a touch impatiently. "You don't suppose I'd put my most treasured items out on display for anyone to discover? You should be in practice, it's the same Concealment that's on the front gate."

"Oh, sorry." He took out his wand, hands shaking slightly. Of course, it was obvious now he looked at it that it was an adaptation of the family spell he knew so well. Typical. It didn't matter how much he learned at school … as soon as he got home he'd be right back to being the same daft little kid as when he couldn't do magic at all, and the whole clan of elder Longbottoms thought he was the first Squib in seven generations. Except Granddad of course. He'd always told Uncle Algie and the others to lay off him.

He reversed the spell without difficulty. The boots disappeared and in their place appeared a smooth, wooden cabinet front, with two little brass rings on either side. He pulled on these and a drawer slid out from an almost invisible join. He lifted the wide drawer with both arms. It was _heavy_. He stumbled back over to the bed and just managed not to slam it to the floor with a crash. He sat down on the wicker-bottomed chair next to his gran's bed with relief.

"I expect you'd like me to tell you what I've called you up here for?"

Neville nodded slowly, wishing he could say: '_No actually, it's fine, don't bother_.'

His grandmother leaned over and reached into the drawer. She seemed to be searching for something but there must have been a more subtle concealment spell on the contents because all he could make out was a sea of brightly-coloured silk scarves.

"I'm not going to ask you to say anything. You're a young man now, I don't expect you to listen to your old gran, especially where … well, never mind. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

She still wasn't looking at him, as she went on stirring the contents of the drawer with her wand. Neville was thankful, as he could feel his cheeks starting to burn. He wondered uneasily if he'd been summoned to discuss more than how far behind he had fallen with the gardening. "I want you to keep quiet while I talk."

With an effort, Gran raised herself back into a sitting position. She was holding something bundled up in silk, tied together with a bootlace. Neville nodded again. As if he'd say a word he didn't have to.

She closed her eyes for a second, then began to speak in the same weary tone as before. "Your dad was about the same age as you, lad, when he started acting up. Sending and getting letters from goodness knows where every other day. Hebe was exhausted – she was barely more than a fledgling in those days. Frank had just finished his sixth year too, except his birthday's in May, of course, and he'd passed his Apparition Test first time. And then he started going out at night and not coming back until morning."

His grandmother looked hard at him, but Neville held her gaze steadily, no longer caring about the telling-off this was leading up to. It wasn't often he got a chance to hear a story about his dad, not from Gran anyway. She gave a slight, approving nod. "Well, I was going spare, terrified he might be getting himself – or someone else – into trouble. Your grandfather told me to leave him be. Youthful high spirits, he called it. I should trust him, he'd say: '_we've brought the lad up properly, that's our job done.'_

"I couldn't do it. I went at him, told him he'd bring shame on the family, warned him he'd break my heart if he wasn't careful. Eventually, he stopped gallivanting off and spent the rest of the summer at home. He was angry though. He didn't forgive me." Neville suppressed an inappropriate grin. Of course, his dad wouldn't have been a pushover. He wondered where this was going. It wasn't like he was about to start gadding about all over the country at night time, even if he had passed his Apparition Test.

"The next summer it was all different. He came straight out and said he'd be writing letters to this girl at Hogwarts, and going to see her whenever he got the chance." Augusta paused, shaking her head. "It was Alice, your mother."

This time, Neville stared at the floor to hide the smile he couldn't hold back. He knew only the bare facts: that his parents had met at school, and how his dad hadn't 'courted' anyone but his mum, but Gran had never encouraged questions. She'd always refused to talk about the time before they'd moved back to the area as a young, married couple, a few months before he was born. He'd often wondered about the missing years.

"She had another year at school to go, see. Your dad said to me, bold as brass, that they didn't know how long they had, how long any of them had, and '_nothing was going to part them again in this lifetime'_. I told him again not to be so foolish, that while he was living under my roof he'd abide by my rules. He argued, tried to make me change my mind, but I wouldn't hear him. He stuck it out for a few more weeks, coming and going as he pleased. There were terrible rows, every time he came back from seeing her. When his Auror training started, he moved out. And your mother moved into his digs near the Ministry straight from school."

Neville found he'd been holding his breath and let it out in a rush, feeling slightly dizzy.

"We didn't see him again, not until they made it official. I was heart-stricken, me and your granddad both were, but I wouldn't back down, and neither would Frank. Too stubborn. We met Alice at the wedding. Such a lovely lass. We made up our quarrel, I even apologised to the pair of them. Imagine that." Gran looked up from studying the bright silk package in her hands, and Neville was shocked to see a twinkle in her brown eyes.

"I thought the bad times were all behind us. Frank had known better than me, as a lad of seventeen. They didn't have long at all … a year or two, not even that. What I wouldn't give now to have the years back when we weren't speaking." A tear rolled down the high bridge of Gran's nose. However, her voice was no longer tired, but firm and strong.

"You see how it goes, lad? Things are just as bad now, worse even. None of us knows how long we've got on this earth, or what's round the corner. I'm not going to tell you how to live your life."

_Eh?_ thought Neville.

"I'm going to trust you and that little girl, who seems besotted, don't ask me why, to be _responsible_." It looked as though the words were almost choking her. "And I'm giving you these."

Gran laid the package she was holding on the bed next to her, and waved her wand over it. The silk scarf and the bootlace vanished. Inside was a loosely coiled bundle of parchment which would have unrolled itself completely, had it not been for another, much older, shoelace tied round its middle. On the outside bit of parchment, Neville could see a broken Hogwarts seal.

"It's not much. A few bits and pieces got left behind when they were staying here, while they were saving up for the new place. They always intended to come back here and clear it all properly, but they were busy, what with you coming along, and the war getting worse all the time."

Neville stared at the bundle of letters, transfixed. He felt an unusual surge of anger towards his grandmother. He tried to suppress it, to no avail. Why had she never told him any of this before? How could she have kept them from him, all these years, when she _knew_how many questions he had?

Gran didn't seem to notice that anything was wrong, perfectly recovered from her display of emotion a minute or two ago. "I've been holding onto them for you until you were of age." She held up a hand as if to silence him, although he hadn't yet said a word. "You'll see why. I want you to have them now. They were coming to you on your birthday anyway, and they're yours by rights." There was a brief pause. He held his breath again, fighting an impulse to snatch up the letters and slam out of the room. Gran hadn't quite finished, it seemed. "I thought they might help you work out what's important. She seems like a nice lass, if a touch on the sullen side, and she may be brighter than she looks, I'll give her that."

The anger drained out of him as suddenly as it had appeared. This was the Gran he knew. The one who always had his best interests at heart, the one who'd given him a home, cared for him, and always done her best by him, according to her lights. He took the letters solemnly. "Thanks, Gran. I'm glad to have them. But you mustn't …" His voice trailed off. He'd never told her off before.

His grandmother's eyebrows arched in surprised disapproval. "Mustn't _what_?" she demanded crisply.

"Say things like that about Hannah," he mumbled.

"I speak as I find, my boy."

He gathered his courage in both hands. "You don't even know her. She could be the brightest witch in our year, for all you know." He stared at the polished wooden floor.

To his utter astonishment, Gran gave one of her rare, cackling laughs. "Right enough, lad. Your dad would have said the same." She paused, and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief pulled from her sleeve. "You know something?" she mused. "Happen he did at that. Now come on, I've got my work to be getting on with."

Her grandson rushed out of the room, and thundered along the landing. Augusta listened to him go, hearing his bedroom door slam, but didn't get up for a minute. She felt all of a tremble and her heart was fluttering like it did only when she couldn't avoid Apparating. She stood up slowly and twitched the counterpane straight, feeling impatient with herself. He'd been in two battles now, and survived. She had to trust his luck would hold. And if he had a girl to come back to, someone better than an old grandmother, so much the better. She couldn't say what had caused her change of heart, why it now didn't seem quite so important to keep the two children chastely apart. It might have been, at dinner yesterday evening, the sight of her grandson looking … not anxious or irritatingly eager-to-please for once, but truly _alive_ … as though he had some preciously guarded secret, like any other lad his age.

She thought back to the night sixteen years ago when they'd brought Neville to her, a screaming, unrecognisable bundle, with scrunched-up face and flailing fists, and her heart twisted again. She'd never spoiled him though. None of them could accuse her of_that, _she thought with grim satisfaction. And now he was nearly of age. It was time for him to make his own way in the world, however unprepared she feared he might be. The letters would help a little. It wasn't easy to give up all she had left of her Frank but, yes, it was time.

In his room, Neville undid the old shoelace around the parchment bundle with shaking fingers. The letter on the top was dated five years before he was born. It was very short. So this was what his Dad's handwriting looked like. Not so different from his own. Spiky, cramped and blotted, with holes where the quill had gone through.

_My darling Alice, _he read. _I hope you like surprises. I bet you thought I wouldn't go through with it but by the time you get this I'll be waiting in the garden of your parents' house. Look out the window, I'm in the summerhouse, like we agreed. Love, Frank. _

He was lost. Three hours later, Zophy jumped onto his lap, unsettled without Hannah around. Her needle-sharp claws pierced the skin through Neville's jeans. He came out of his trance, dazed and stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. He picked up the kitten, and walked downstairs to find them both some food. He didn't even notice that the pain in his side had completely gone.

* * *

By the end of her first day, Hannah was almost ready to walk out of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. Mr Perkins, her boss, was barely able to turn on the light in the dusty, windowless cubby-hole masquerading as their shared office without panicking over the mountain of work teetering on his desk. He coped, she had learned, by steadfastly ignoring it, inventing ever more abstruse procedures to shunt the responsibility for nose-biting teacups, kettles that whistled 'Greensleeves,' and other magical items which had found their way to Muggle antique and charity shops onto other departments. The bulk of the work ended up in Obliviator Headquarters. That department's sledgehammer approach had been burning out Muggle synapses all over the country for the past year. Hannah was scandalised but didn't allow herself to be overwhelmed, doing her best to rise to the challenge with the tenacity for which Professor Sprout had always praised her.

She spent the first three days tidying up the office, discovering the stashes where Perkins kept his Old Mountain Dew Firewhiskey and setting traps for the mice she thought she could hear scuttering behind the skirting. So far, she'd caught fifteen rats. She'd read somewhere that there was one rat for every person in London. She hadn't realised that the reason most people never saw them was because they were all congregating several hundred feet below ground level in the Ministry of Magic.

On Thursday, she set to work to clear the backlog of work on Perkins' desk. She was determined that from now on, as little as possible would be dealt with by wizards without any people – or as Mr Perkins would have it – _Muggle_ skills whatsoever. It wasn't easy. Hannah was terrified the first time she had to pay a house call to an elderly lady in Bromley by Bow who had purchased an everlasting candle at a car boot sale. However, she was ably assisted by a very grateful Mr Perkins, who was more than happy to show her the ropes, now that he had a hardworking and efficient young witch to keep him on the straight and narrow. Finally, on Friday, she was able to take her first lunch hour of the week.

She stood in the doorway of the Muggle Archive, five floors below her office in the very bowels of the Ministry. Her boss had given her directions, praising her diligence when she'd told him she wanted to read up on recent developments in Muggle Liaison. Hannah had felt slightly guilty for deceiving him. She gazed wonderingly at the towers of stacks that appeared to stretch half a mile in either direction, then reached out a hand and pulled out a leather-bound ledger at random. Sinking onto a library step, she began to look for proof that magic had been the cause her mother's death. She wouldn't rest until she knew the truth.


	7. Through the Trees

Chapter Seven – Through the Trees 

"It's almost like there isn't a war on at all, to hear some people talking." Hannah dragged the heavy wooden rake she'd found in the tool shed the length of the lawn. She had insisted on helping Neville cut the grass, despite his protests that it was hot work and that she was entitled to a rest after working all week.

"How do you mean?" he asked. The hand mower whizzed along throwing out grass clippings without a sound, thanks to the Silencing and Propulsion Charms placed on it. This left his attention free to linger on Hannah. Neville watched a bead of sweat run out from under her hairline and down the back of her neck, before disappearing between her shoulder blades. Then he winced as the prongs of the rake scraped a clump of newly-mown grass out by the roots, leaving a bare patch on the lush bowling green of his grandmother's prize lawn. He wondered how long he should leave it before letting Hannah know that _Wingardium Leviosa_ worked surprisingly well on grass cuttings.

"I was queuing up for lunch in the canteen yesterday and these two witches behind me from Magical Games and Sports were chatting about going up to Hogsmeade at the weekend for the summer sales. One of them was debating whether to get the new Cleansweep or a second-hand Nimbus. The Cleansweep is fifty percent off apparently. Can you believe it?"

"That's terrible," said Neville. "Everyone knows this year's model has dodgy Balancing Spells. She'd be loads better off with the Nimbus."

Hannah dropped the rake and put her hands on her hips. He held her gaze straight-faced and shook his head sorrowfully. She gave a shout of laughter, pushed her damp hair off her forehead and kicked at the small heap of grass she'd managed to assemble.

Neville shrugged. "Any luck with – er – you know?"

Hannah sighed and picked up the rake again. "Very little so far. I did find something – a load of old papers to do with something called the Muggle Artefact Research Group. The records are really ancient though …" She stumped off in the direction of the mower.

Neville followed her, resisting the temptation to wrest the rake from her grasp as she flung it out in front of her and pounded it into the earth again. "I could be clutching at straws when I should be spending my time on recent cases of Muggle-baiting." She paused. "But those are just too depressing to read about. So unimaginative – and cruel. I can't bring myself to look at any more."

"Well maybe the older stuff is important …" said Neville, trying to sound positive. He didn't blame her for avoiding the issue.

"I hope so. I don't think they had much success though. I can't find any completed spells. I'm working my way though year by year. It could take weeks and I've got another house call on Monday. I suppose I can stay after hours, Mr Perkins said it would be OK ..."

"What did you tell him?"

"Just that I wanted to read up on old cases. He was delighted – said I was a much more conscientious assistant than the last one." She smiled at him. "Don't expect to see me for supper on Monday."

Neville bit back a protest. One week into her new post in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, and already it seemed as though Hannah was being asked to carry out tasks well beyond the range of her job description, not to mention her experience. Was it safe for her to be doing Memory Modification without formal training? Hannah had assured him it was OK, but he knew the charms were complicated – they didn't even cover them with Professor Flitwick for their N.E.W.T until seventh year. What if something went wrong – or she hurt a Muggle? She'd never forgive herself.

He wanted to warn her – but couldn't be sure whether his disquiet really stemmed from concern or just a selfish wish to see more of her in the evenings. She'd looked so proud the night before, when she'd handed Gran a contribution to the housekeeping from her first week's salary. Neville didn't want to say anything that would take the shine off her success. He'd have to trust her.

"Oh, _drat_ this blasted grass!" exclaimed Hannah, as a gust of wind scattered the stack she'd just created.

"Er – let me." Neville left the lawn mower churning away and drew his wand. "_Accio_ grass!" Once the loose clippings were neatly gathered at his feet, he stepped back and gestured to Hannah. "It's all yours."

Hannah walked over and frowned at the pile of grass. "Thanks, Neville."

Thank goodness he hadn't offended her. Neville turned away and raised his wand again, this time to corral the lawn mower before it buried itself in a thorny thicket of rose bushes at the edge of the lawn. It didn't take Hannah long to work out what she wanted to do next. Without any further prompting, the clippings were levitated and banished to the compost heap.

A few minutes later, the lawn was tidy and the tools were once again hanging from their hooks on the walls inside the old brick privy. "What next?" Hannah asked, closing the door and dusting the last remnants of grass off her shirt front.

Neville glanced over his shoulder. He could hear his grandmother singing to herself in the scullery. They were safe for a bit. He took Hannah's hand and drew her around the side of the house, out of sight of the kitchen window. The sun beat down, soaking into the brickwork.

Ten minutes later, they emerged and walked straight into Gran hanging out the washing. "That's a good job you've done with the lawn, you two," she said briskly, without turning round, waving her wand to untangle two pairs of jeans that were twisted together in the basket at her feet.

"Oh! Mrs Longbottom – I mean Augusta – I didn't mean for you to do our washing!" exclaimed Hannah, running forward to help. "Th-thank you," she stammered, fiery red in the face as she pegged her things on the line as fast as possible.

"Nonsense, child. It was no trouble – not that I'll be making a habit of it. I've noticed you've been using _Scourgify_. All very well for everyday but it's a bad habit to get into. No spell beats soap and good hot water. There are a number of ways to save labour. Neville can show you." Gran smiled grimly. "I trained him up from an early age."

She wasn't exaggerating. Neville had been helping around the house since he was little, at first learning how to cook and clean and do laundry without magic; later assisting Gran with Levitating and Folding and all the other Charms that made housework bearable. He'd never minded. Now he felt guilty as he realised he hadn't lifted a finger to help all week, except in the garden – which wasn't _work_ anyway. When he hadn't been gardening, he'd been sprawled on his bed, reading.

He took a step towards the washing basket but hesitated at the sight of unfamiliar garments mixed in with his own t-shirts and pants. "It's all right, I've got it," said Hannah in a tight voice, fixing him with a glare even fiercer than Gran's. He turned away, not wanting to add to her embarrassment, went back into the shed and started sweeping the floor free of dead leaves and cobwebs.

He felt a little dazed. He wondered if_everything_ from now on was going summon unwelcome pictures into his mind. He swept determinedly. It was different at school. There, girls were at a safe distance, at the top of an unclimbable staircase at night, during the day swathed in robes from neck to hem. _Don't think about it._

A few minutes later, Hannah opened the door and handed him a glass of home-made lemonade. She squeezed in next to him and shut the door behind her. "Your grandmother said we're free for the rest of the afternoon."

Really? That didn't sound like Gran.

"She said – and I quote – _stay out from under my feet and make yourselves scarce_." Hannah giggled and took a swig of her lemonade. "She's growing on me, your gran."

"Sorry about before," mumbled Neville, blushing all over again and thankful Hannah couldn't see his face in the dim light. He stopped his aimless sweeping and propped the broom back behind the door. "She doesn't mean to be … you know …"

"A meddlesome busybody?"

Neville looked up, startled. Hannah was smiling, her face very close to his. She placed her glass of lemonade on the windowsill, slipped her arms around his waist and laid her face sideways against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around her back and they stood, leaning into one another. It was a pose they fell into automatically now, whenever they found themselves alone.

"It's OK. I know she means well. I was more worried about – you know – before." Hannah giggled. "I don't want her to think I'm corrupting her grandson."

The odd conversation with Gran a few days before and the content of his mum and dad's letters flashed across Neville's mind. "I think it's a bit late for that."

"You mean – she knows?" Hannah dropped her arms and backed away. She turned and began hunting through the assorted broken tools in the corner of the shed. Already, Neville knew better than to suppose the airy lack of concern in her voice genuine.

"Um, sort of ..."

"Great," said Hannah, continuing to rummage. A trowel jumped off its hook and clattered onto the tiled floor. She ignored it, her attention apparently caught by what was underneath the hook. She began tugging at something behind the shed door.

What didn't Hannah want Gran to know? What_was _it that was happening between them? Neville had an inkling of what he wanted but ... he decided it was best not to think about that either. Going with the flow seemed to be working well enough for now.

"Neville – who do these belong to?" Hannah dragged two dilapidated brooms into the patch of light filtering through the tiny, cloudy window. The one she held out to him wasn't what he'd been using to sweep the floor. The other was smaller, and even tattier.

It was far too hot in there. "M – my mum 'n dad," he gasped. The cobwebby, plastered walls closed in on him. He had to get out. He shoved the door open and practically fell onto the lawn.

Hannah followed him, dragging the two brooms behind her. "These aren't bad you know, Neville. Have you ever …?"

"No!" he almost shouted.

"Neville – are you all right? Do you want me to put them away?"

"It's OK." Still breathing hard, Neville reached his hand out to grasp the larger of the two brooms. His heart was hammering fit to burst, a familiar sensation but one he associated with school, not home. _Get a grip_, he told himself. He was almost of age, for Merlin's sake. He'd read the letters. Two old brooms couldn't hurt him anymore – could they?"

Hannah turned the smaller one over in her hands. "Hmm, a lot of the tail section needs renewing. Handle needs oiling – and sanding first probably."

"Wh – what do you mean?"

"It's criminal. Two perfectly decent brooms. The least we should do is fix them up – even if you don't want to ride them …" she ended a little wistfully.

"I – I've just never thought about it."

What a lie. He'd thought about riding his dad's old Comet for years, and been secretly glad every time Gran had said she'd rather he didn't, as she still didn't trust him to remember where the ground was. "I'm no good at flying."

"But – you learnt though – in first year? We all did."

"I'm telling you – I'm rubbish. I fell off the first time. Broke my wrist."

Neville stared miserably at the broom handle he was holding. He could feel splinters pushing themselves into his hand.

"Ouch. I remember now." He looked up. Hannah's face was serious, her voice full of sympathy. She wasn't laughing at him.

"Are you really good then?" he asked. He couldn't remember ever seeing her practising. He'd noticed her at matches, of course, in the Hufflepuff stand – bright hair loose and flying in the wind, cheeks rosy with the cold.

"What do you think?" she replied brusquely. "You have to start really young to reach any sort of standard."

Not always, thought Neville. But something told him it wouldn't be tactful to mention Harry.

"I nearly made the team in fourth year – I was second reserve, just for a term. Professor Sprout pushed for me. But I never got to play. Cedric said I "lacked competitive edge"

Neville couldn't help it. A laugh escaped him.

"What's so funny?"

"Competitive edge!" He fought to keep a straight face. "Well – you all do, don't you? In Hufflepuff."

Hannah's eyes flashed. "Oy! Just you wait, Longbottom. I'll show you."

"Mmm, right," said Neville, teasing her again. He liked the way her eyebrows went all wiggly and her face scrunched up when she was cross.

Without another word, Hannah jumped on the tattered old broom and took off into the trees. When she reached the bottom of the garden, she turned. Looking perfectly comfortable hovering in mid air, she shouted, "Catch me if you can – but I bet you can't!"

Oh God. Neville bet he couldn't either. The magic on the old broom didn't seem to have faded at all. Hannah was now circling the apple tree under the lowest branches at a frightening pace, just above ground level, carefully keeping below the top of the fence. Even so, Neville hoped Gran wasn't anywhere near a window.

Hannah was whooping and yelling as she made yet another dangerously sharp turn. It didn't look as though she was coming down any time soon. Neville made up his mind. There was no way he was going to let her see how scared he was. He laid his dad's broom flat on the grass and held his hand above it. "Up," he muttered. To his immense surprise, the broom leapt into the air and stuck fast to his hand. He could feel it tugging and twitching, as though eager to be airborne. Neville mounted and kicked off reluctantly. After a few circuits, he was able to loosen his death-grip on the handle.

The broom felt more balanced and responsive than a school broom. Slower, yes – and he could feel at least three splinters jabbing him whenever he changed grip – but he liked the way the broom turned when he leaned, the way Madam Hooch had always tried to explain. At school, this manoeuvre had invariably resulted in Neville hanging upside-down like a pig roasting on a spit, needing to be guided to safety amid shrieks of laughter from Malfoy and his lot.

Nevertheless, after half a dozen circuits he hadn't managed to get within ten yards of Hannah. Neville pointed the broom handle downwards and sank to the ground. He didn't care about not winning, he was just grateful he hadn't made an utter fool of himself. "OK – I take it back. Now _please_ will you come down?"

Hannah landed next to him and jumped off and hugged him. Neville staggered backwards.

"Oh, Neville. Isn't it brilliant?" she said, her face practically glowing. "Can't we fix them up – please?"

How could he say no? He felt excited at the prospect himself. Brooms meant transport and transport meant – freedom. At night-time. Like his dad.

"'Course we can."

"Brilliant! And – and I'll teach you – if you like. Not that you looked like you needed it actually. I don't know what you were on about before. Anyway, it's easy when you practice." Hannah shoved the two brooms back into the shed and locked the door.

* * *

On Monday, Hannah and Perkins set out for their first house call of the week. They didn't have far to travel: the report had come in from a witch living in the East End of London. Hannah patiently managed the transitions and transactions of the journey. She didn't want to be big-headed, she'd told Neville the previous evening, but she didn't know how Perkins had ever got_anything_ done before she arrived.

It had been a wonderful weekend. They'd spent Saturday afternoon walking in the woods near Neville's house, supposedly with the aim of looking for burdock root and Dryad's Saddle fungus for a potion Augusta was brewing. As it turned out, they'd had too much to say to each other to really concentrate. Neville had taken her to all his childhood haunts – like the hollow tree trunk where the Bowtruckle family who lived in the garden went to nest – and the Blackberry Place – so called for the fattest, juiciest fruits for miles around. It was far too early for this year's crop to be ripe – but already there were hundreds of hard green bullets, and a few with a hint of palest pink.

Then he took her to the bank of the stream where he'd lie for hours on end, gazing into the depths in the hope of catching a glimpse of a water nymph. He described how their long beards and hair would float to the surface, concealing them so completely that most of the time they were indistinguishable from weeds swaying in the current. If one kept very still, for ages and ages, it was sometimes possible to glimpse a flash of silver and white, as they raised their faces and hands to the sun. Once, he'd told her, he'd fallen asleep, and when he'd woken one of them had been sunning himself on a fallen log nearby. Just the movement of Neville's eyelids had been enough to warn him – he'd slipped back into the stream like water flowing over a rock and darted away out of sight.

It sounded like a lonely childhood to her. Still, Hannah was spellbound by the warmth and animation in Neville's eyes as he related the story. They were sitting down. The late afternoon sunlight made dancing shadows on the ground littered with twigs and small stones.

"You look like you did the first time I – er – noticed you," said Neville.

Hannah felt herself blush. She tried to make light of it. "And when was that – when I spilt the whole table's Appleseed Essence in first year? Or the time I tripped and squashed the seedling tray you'd been working on all morning?"

"No!" he exclaimed. "I meant, you know,_noticed_ you." He took her hand. "We were in the Hog's Head. That Zacharias bloke was giving Harry a hard time about teaching us Defence…"

"Zach's not so bad," said Hannah absently. "I remember! You said something about Harry saving the Philosopher's Stone."

"Yeah – except I got it wrong – "

"And Hermione felt the need to correct you, of course –"

"Hermione's all right," said Neville, with the ghost of a smile. "You were sitting opposite – looking straight at me. I felt like a right pillock. I noticed y – your eyes. They were so blue. I thought you were prettier than any other girl there."

"Oh!" Hannah could feel she was bright red in the face by now. Would she ever learn composure – poise? She doubted it. What rubbish anyway. Cho Chang? The Patils? The boy must be blind. She wasn't about to set him straight though.

"And there was something else …" Neville went on. Then he appeared to think better of it. "No – never mind."

Hannah sneaked a look at him. She was surprised to see that he was blushing too.

"Go on, tell me … you know you want to …" she teased.

"You'd taken your cloak off – "

"That's right – it was really stuffy in there. I remember."

"And – well, er – the top hook of your robe had come undone…"

"Oh my God – you're right. It was loose. It came off completely the next day."

"I don't think anyone else noticed – oh, hang on. Ron mentioned it later when we were getting ready for bed."

"NO!" Merlin. How embarrassing.

Something occurred to her. "I bet Hermione noticed then." Hannah began to giggle. "Well I never."

How did she feel? Was it – yes – flattered? Hannah couldn't help it – the thought of Neville noticing her made her feel _good_. But _Ron Weasley_ of all people. No, that wasn't good, it was mortifying. She shook her head. Thank goodness it was a million years ago.

"So – the top hook you said?" Hannah's voice was innocent.

"Erm – I think it was about _here_," replied Neville, pointing to the top button of her blue shirt. "I'm not sure though …" He let go of her hand and put his arm around her waist instead. He leaned back, rolling her over until she was sprawled on top of him. "I think maybe I need a closer look …"

Hannah smiled to herself. "What is it, dear girl?" asked Perkins, hesitating on the edge of a Pelican crossing, as though he were about to plunge into the English Channel, rather than the not-particularly-heavy traffic of Whitechapel Road. As the green man began to beep and flash, Hannah took him by the arm and bustled him across. "Nothing, Mr Perkins. Look, we're here."

* * *

Ophelia Jones was originally from Nigeria, she told Hannah and Perkins, as she poured very sweet iced tea into two little glasses. She'd emigrated and settled in Tower Hamlets as a young bride in the 1950s. "My husband passed, ten years ago now … yes, he was a wizard, no, no children …" She seemed eager to answer Hannah's polite questions, glad of a captive audience. Settled in a velvet-upholstered armchair in the corner of the kitchen in her flat on the fourteenth floor, she presided like a stately queen in flipflops and a flowered print dress.

"Oh yes – I don't get out much these days but I know all the wizard folk in these parts. Not many left round here – all moved away. London's too overcrowded these days. Not easy for a growing family to keep out of sight."

"Excuse me, Mrs Jones – your letter … something about a little boy?"

"That's right my love. I got a good view from my balcony." She gestured to a glass door in the corner of the kitchen. "I see all comings and goings."

"Do you mind if I …?"

"No, not at all, lovey. You go take a look. He could be there now."

Hannah got up and went out onto the small balcony. There was no breeze, even at this height. It was another blazing day. She could see a second tower block across the busy main road, the mirror image of the one they were in. At ground level, over to one side, was a run-down playground, with rusty metal swings and slides. A series of planks suspended between plastic crates and dustbins had been set up in the open spaces between the apparatus. The whole area was deserted. She went back in.

"Danny Harding, that's his name. He used to be nice little boy. I know the mother – a good woman. Thinks she's a cut above her neighbours but I don't hold that against her. Last few weeks the boy's been messing around in that play area – day in, day out. Got hold of something he shouldn't."

"Do you know what it is, Mrs Jones?"

"I thought it was some Muggle toy at first. He points it at things and it don't make no noise, just spits out water and makes cans and things jump off those planks down there. But he's in there, all day, every day. Except when he goes in for meals. And this past few days all the birds have gone. I miss my sparrow – he was company for me. And old Miss Thomas on the third floor – her cat's gone missing. Beside herself, she is. Can't kill birds with a toy – nor cats either."

* * *

For the second time that morning, Perkins and Hannah climbed wearily, this time to the twelfth floor. The lift was out of order, like it had been across the road. The stairwell was dark, damp and smelly. Hannah tried not to think about the pools of liquid collecting in the corners.

At the bottom, they'd examined the names on the buzzers by the entrance. 'Harding' was number 125, but when they pressed it nothing happened. The main door was hanging open anyway. Before going in, Perkins had hesitated. "I wonder if we ought to go back to the office and file a preliminary report. A strange contraption that spits out water and kills birds and cats. Now Hannah – can you tell me into which categories of exclusion this case fits?"

"Er – not really. It seems fairly straightforward to me," she said doubtfully.

"Come now, dear girl. You should know this by now. Unidentifiable – that's Category Seven. Known to cause permanent harm to living creatures: animal, Muggle or Wizard – that's Fifteen."

Hannah flushed. The Thirty Categories of Misuse had been in the Orientation Pack she'd received at the interview and she knew it off by heart. "But Mr Perkins, it is identifiable – what else could it be but a water pistol?"

Perkins looked mildly puzzled. Hannah went on. "And as for harm to living creatures – at the moment we've only Mrs Jones' report about a sparrow. If cats _are_ in danger, well surely we ought to at least try and confirm it? If we file a report, it'll go into the system and nothing else will happen for weeks – or months the way things are."

"Very well my dear – if you're sure you understand the nature of this – er – water piston."

"Pistol. It's a Muggle toy, like Mrs Jones said. As harmless as the Ever-unblocking toilet plunger we disenchanted last week."

"Oh dear yes. Harmless. I'm not sure next door's inhabitants would agree with you there. Most distressing. All right then – we'll take a look."

Flat 125 had an ornate front door, a black metal gate barring entry and a burglar alarm affixed to the wall. Perkins raised his hand to the reproduction brass door knocker but Hannah stopped him. "Best if we use the bell, Mr Perkins."

After a very long wait, Hannah heard the sound of a chain being scraped back. The door opened a fraction. A woman's voice asked, "Can I help you?"

Perkins raised his wand and whispered a Cooperation Spell before answering. Hannah looked away. She really didn't like that bit. She couldn't quite see where it differed from the Imperius Curse, albeit in a milder form. "I wonder if we might trouble you for a quick word about you son – Danny is it?"

"Of course, come in," said the voice, sounding far more cordial. There were sounds of several bolts being undone and keys being turned before the door opened.

"I do beg your pardon. One has to be so careful these days." The woman who appeared and ushered them into the hall looked rather nice, if a little severe. Her hair and nails were immaculate, and her stiletto heels clicked on the laminate flooring. Next to her, Hannah felt grubby and very young.

"Please, go through to the living-room," said Mrs Harding. "Danny and I were just finishing lunch."

Hannah spotted what they'd come for as soon as they walked in. A boy of around eight years old was sitting on the sofa eating a sandwich. He stopped chewing as they entered, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Perkins whispered the spell again.

Hannah walked over and picked up the toy from where it lay at the boy's feet. He raised no objection, and continued eating his sandwich. She had guessed correctly. It _was_ a water pistol – the heavy-duty, pump-action kind with all sorts of levers and twiddly bits on it. It looked like fun. As she lifted it, she was surprised at the weight of it. She looked in the chamber – no water – so why was it so heavy? The gun looked like plastic, smelt like plastic, sounded like plastic when she rapped on it with her knuckles. She ran her hands over it. It felt – not hard and smooth like plastic – spongy, almost sticky somehow.

She handed it to Perkins, who turned it over a couple of times, looking nonplussed. "Something … I'm not sure, magic of some kind but I can't tell …" He gave Hannah an enquiring look and shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps a demonstration of the – er – toy?" he asked. She took the gun back and handed it to the boy. "Can you show us how you play with this, Danny?"

"Oh yes darling," said Mrs Harding, with a vague and pleased smile. "Do show the nice lady and gentleman." Hannah had the feeling that this wasn't her usual manner of address.

"No problem," said the boy. "It's wicked – it does all sorts. It's loads better than the one I had last year. Hits everything – can't miss."

"Can't miss?" It was unnerving to be completely in charge of the interview. Hannah hoped she sounded more relaxed and confident than she felt.

"Look, I'll show you. I'll get that man's hat down there – can you see?" Hannah nodded.

Danny went over to the double-glazed window. "Check this out!" He pointed the pistol carelessly, without really aiming. Water exploded out of the barrel and went straight through the glass as though it wasn't there. On the busy street below, the man's hat went flying. Hannah watched him look up and around, shaking his fists – before scurrying out during a gap in the traffic to retrieve it. Danny turned back to face them, seemingly unaware that he'd just shot an empty water pistol through a closed window.

"I just wanted to knock it off that time …"

"Can it do other things?" asked Hannah in an even tone.

"Yeah. It does whatever you want it to, you just think about it and point – and splat."

"So what else have you used it for?"

The boy looked shifty. "Just playin'."

"Did you hurt Mrs Jones' sparrow?"

"I ain't done nuffink like that."

Perkins raised his wand and pointed it directly at Danny's head. "The truth please," he said mildly.

The boy shook his head angrily but was unable to stop himself from answering. "Yeah. All right. I got it – but it was just a – a what d'you call it? I didn't fink it would work."

"An experiment," said Mrs Harding, smiling and nodding approvingly. "He's such a clever boy. Very advanced for his age."

"Give it here," said Hannah, no longer bothering to sound friendly.

The Cooperation spell was wearing off, to judge by the sulky look Danny gave her as he handed over his prize. She weighed it in her hands again and shut her eyes. Underneath the unnatural pressure of the spells, she could now feel the toy's previous, innocuous character. The flimsiness of the mechanism, the cheapness of construction. Hannah couldn't understand the layer of magic but she could sense its thickness. It burned coldly, making her arms ache. It sickened her. She put the gun down on the floor but didn't take her eyes off it for a second.

As though from a long distance away, she vaguely heard Perkins asking the mother questions about the gun's provenance – where had she bought it, how long ago and whether anyone else knew of its existence.

"I'm terribly sorry – I can't help you, Mr – er – what did you say your name was again?"

"Perkins."

"Danny's dad gave it to him, ooh, must be a couple of months ago now. But I don't know how to get in touch with him, I'm afraid – he's gone A.W.O.L. again. He's always doing it." Mrs Harding paused for thought. "Hang on – I'll find you his last address and phone number." She bustled out of the room.

Perkins turned to Danny. "Is this correct, young man?"

"Yeah," grunted the boy. "My Dad gave it me."

Then he turned to Hannah. "I will perform the Obliviations, dear girl. A dreadful business – Dark Magic undoubtedly." He picked up the pistol and ran his hands over it briefly, before shaking his head and placing it back on the floor.

"I fear that such a Dark object may have had unpredictable effects on these poor people. Effects that could prove difficult to erase. Not straightforward necessarily, you see?"

Hannah nodded. She was exhausted and didn't think she could do any more, even if Perkins had needed help. The water pistol was claiming all her attention, even lying harmlessly on the floor. It seemed to pulsate. Her hands burned where they had touched the plastic.

"Rest for a few minutes my dear. You have done an excellent job – it's quite possible I would not have recognised the very grave danger if you hadn't been here, not being familiar with the original purpose of the item. This next task must be my responsibility."

Hannah sank gratefully onto the sofa and closed her eyes. She was astonished. She felt shame at how she had treated Perkins before now – as a bumbling time-server, a borderline alcoholic. The Memory Charms he performed were skilled and gentle. He dealt with Mrs Harding first and then Danny, which seemed to take much longer. Hannah wondered if her perception of time was being distorted by the throbbing headache that was now hammering at the inside of her skull.

When he had finished, he said, "Now Mrs Harding – thank you so much for listening to our sales pitch – I hope we have been successful."

"Oh yes, of course – we'd be delighted to help. Danny has several toys he doesn't play with. I've been meaning to take them down to the Children's Hospital but you've saved me the trouble."

Five minutes later, Hannah and Perkins left the flat laden down with picture books, a Muggle chess set and a model farm. Hannah let Perkins carry the water pistol. It didn't seem to be causing him any adverse effects, although Hannah still felt ill every time she caught sight of the outline of it through its plastic bag. When they got back to the office, Hannah offered to help write up the morning's work rather grudgingly.

"No, no dear girl – that's quite all right. There are several procedures with which you are not yet familiar. Of utmost urgency is a report to the Auror Office regarding the serious nature of the charmed object – this could be the worst incident of Muggle-baiting yet."

Perkins climbed on his chair and selected a box file from the highest shelf. He blew a cloud of dust off the top before opening it. "And I'll need to report to the Obliviation Squad concerning the strength of the spells it was necessary to perform on the afflicted child. Merlin knows what might have happened to the poor boy if he'd been left in possession of the weapon for much longer."

Hannah shuddered. Perkins was opening and shutting his desk drawers impatiently. "Where are these blessed forms?" he muttered. Hannah blushed.

"Er – I'm sorry, Mr Perkins. I reorganised the filing system. They're in our in-trays."

"Oh wonderful. Yes, that's very sensible. What a treasure you are. " He looked up and peered at her over his spectacles. "I'll be happy to take you through this at a later date but for now, time is of the essence."

"In that case, may I be excused for lunch?" said Hannah, rather faintly.

"Of course, dear girl. In fact, seeing as I'll be tied up for the rest of the afternoon – why don't you take the rest of the day off? You've certainly earned it."

"Thank you so much Mr Perkins."

Hannah hurried down to the Muggle Archive and began to pull ledgers and scrolls off the shelves where the uncompleted project work of the Muggle Artefact Research Group was stored. The type of magic she was looking for no longer eluded her. How magic had been used to kill her mother was becoming clearer by the second – and Hannah knew that she was the only one who would be able to recognise it.


	8. A Secret Gate

Chapter Eight – A Secret Gate 

When she climbed out of the living-room fireplace, earlier than expected, Hannah could hear Neville's gran preparing supper in the back kitchen. There was no time to waste. As she walked through the hall and into the rich and steamy smells of cooking meat and onions, she overheard her father speaking.

"So, that's why we only ended up having the one …" Hannah had been heading straight for the back door but hearing this, she hesitated. There was a tell-tale quiver in Dad's voice and her jaw tightened involuntarily. She doubted he was giving Augusta a balanced impression of Abbott family life.

"Oh! Hello, love …"

Hannah interrupted him with a hug and kiss. "Hi, Dad. Something smells good."

"Thought you were going to be late. Quiet day?"

Hannah gave a choked laugh. "Not exactly." Dad looked at her anxiously.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She smiled reassuringly. "I'm just a bit tired." Hannah opened the back door and sniffed the early evening air. It had been raining. Lovely.

As she was about to step over the threshold, Augusta turned her head from a pot bubbling on the stove. "Good evening Hannah. I was about to call Neville in." A beady glare fixed Hannah to the spot. "So if you were planning on going out again, it can wait until after we've eaten."

Hannah heart thumped and her face fell. _Stand up to her_, she scolded herself firmly. She thought she had the measure of Neville's gran. She respected firmness and had no patience with indecisive ninnies. "I'll only be five minutes. It's important."

Augusta gave her another hard look before turning back to the stove. "Very well." She flicked her wand and the wooden spoon resumed its stirring. Hannah rushed out of the back door, cheeks burning. One disaster had been averted anyway – Dad hadn't started bawling or lost his temper – yet. As for why she wanted to see Neville … the nosy old bat could think whatever she liked.

Back in the kitchen, Augusta sighed and transferred their supper into an ovenproof dish. Hannah's dad finished laying the table and settled into the rocking chair again with his puzzle book.

Wetness soaked in through the toes of her sandals as she ran across the lawn but Hannah barely noticed. She burst into the greenhouse with a crash that nearly tore the old door off its hinges.

* * *

Neville started violently and his elbow knocked into one of the terracotta pots he was using. It smashed to the ground, scattering compost everywhere. Damn. He ignored the mess for the moment and hurried forward. Hannah's eyes were blazing and she looked almost feverish. She greeted him, returning his hug and hello kiss with breathless haste, before pulling away and wriggling out of the straps of her blue rucksack, dumping it on the floor with a thud. Was it excitement – triumph – he could read in her expression?

"Hold on a sec." Neville repaired the broken pot hurriedly and cleaned up the mess as best he could. He gently lifted the clump of moss-rose he'd been potting up for next year – it had broken in half but that wasn't a disaster. He shook the petals carefully free of earth and wrapped the stems in a damp cloth. It would survive until morning. He turned back to face Hannah, and steered her towards one of the old kitchen chairs that he used as steps. She sat down on the edge of the seat, twisting her fingers together and drumming her heels on the brick floor.

"Have you … ?"

"I think I found something," Hannah broke in, nodding frantically. "But first, let me tell you about the morning I had. I'll have to be quick though. Your gran's ready to dish up."

Fifteen minutes later, however, she didn't seem to have got very far. Neville yawned, and drifted for a moment, wondering what was for supper. Stew and dumplings maybe, seeing as it was Monday. He dragged his attention back to Hannah. She was relating how her boss had pointed his wand at some Muggle boy's head to make him talk. He interrupted her in confusion. "You mean he said the Cooperation Spell again?"

She looked at him, with a puzzled expression. "He didn't say the words out loud."

"But why? You told me it was an adaptation of a Cheering Charm."

"Is that important?" Hannah asked impatiently.

"Remember them from second year? Those things last half an hour, minimum." Hannah paled, her attention well and truly caught.

"Of course," she said slowly. "I should have thought." There was silence for a minute. Neville sniffed the air, hoping to get a whiff of stew from the kitchen. No … the wind must be in the wrong direction. Then Hannah shook her head, thoughtfully. "You know what, Neville? I don't like doing spells on people without them knowing – even nice things like Cheering Charms."

He was little taken aback. "You mean on Muggles?"

"No, I mean on _people._" Neville felt admonished. What else could she have meant? People were always casting spells on each other at school, even out of lessons. Then he remembered Hannah had been a prefect. Come to think of it, at the moment she had bit of a look of that Macmillan bloke about her. She went on. "But yes – especially on Muggles. It's not like duelling. It seems … I don't know, inhuman somehow."

"But it doesn't _hurt_ them."

This time a definite ripple of irritation crossed Hannah's face. Neville knew_that_ look. "Yes, I know all the arguments," she snapped. "It's for their own good, Statute of Secrecy blah blah." Then her expression seemed to crumple as she looked at him. "I'm sorry – I shouldn't take it out on you. Long day."

"It's OK," said Neville quietly.

After a moment, she went on. "I asked Mr Perkins afterwards. He says he avoids it where he can because it means extra paperwork, but with the risk today – he said he had no choice."

Hesitantly, Neville asked the question for a second time. Hannah's temper seemed back to normal but he didn't want his head bitten off again. "But … are you sure it _was_ the Cooperation Spell both times? From the way you described it, it sounds a bit more …"

"Coercive?"

Neville nodded. "Well, yeah. But I was going to say – _dark_."

* * *

Hannah gasped and she stared at Neville. What could he have meant by that? He didn't even know Mr Perkins. Perhaps he was still angry with her for lashing out at him. Her mum's voice echoed in her mind. _Control yourself, Hannah. Daddy needs quiet. Do you think he wants to hear you yelling like a fishwife?_ She felt a surge of anger but suppressed it and said levelly, "Mr Perkins isn't a dark wizard. He's really kind."

Neville continued as though he hadn't heard her. "Cooperation Spells I can understand. And Memory Charms – they're dangerous in the wrong hands but at least it's licensed and you get special training and all that."

_Oh no._ Hannah looked up and met Neville's trusting eyes. There was no trace of anger or blame in his round face. She couldn't lie to him. She leaned over and hid her face in the hollow where the neck of his t-shirt rested against his collarbone. Wonderfully warm and solid arms came up, cradling and pulling her closer as strong hands stroked her aching back. "What's wrong, Puffin?"

Despite herself, Hannah smiled into his shoulder. She loved it when he called her that. "I'm not getting special training for Memory Charms," she said, her voice muffled. "I asked about it at my interview. The Personnel Officer said all staff development was cut back when the war started. He showed me the official memo – it was pinned up in his office with a load of darts through it. '_Line managers are now responsible for all training of junior staff'_. And he had a picture of Percy Weasley with a moustache and his teeth all blacked out."

She felt Neville shake with suppressed laughter. "Ron and Ginny'll like that." Then he sobered and held her slightly away from him so they were looking at each other again. "You could have told me, you know."

"I didn't want you to be worried. I knew you had your doubts about me doing Obliviations. And besides … I didn't think it through. I was so happy to be offered the job."

"You enjoyed practising those Charms."

"I did. It was like a game, making Dad forget the crossword clues he'd just worked out. But it's different, he _knew_ what I was doing – and you were there, to make sure I didn't mess up."

"Well, say you don't want to do them. That you're not ready," Neville suggested. His voice was neutral, almost far away, but Hannah felt his arms tense around her. But what could she do? It was her job. She nodded.

"I'll think about it. I promise." Neville sighed into her hair and Hannah realised he'd been holding his breath. Something else occurred to her. Oh dear. She'd better tell him that too. "After my first house visit last week, I asked Mr Perkins when it was OK to use Cooperation Spells."

"What did he say?"

"He said they were only to be used in highly unpredictable situations or in clear cases of Dark Magic. Mr Weasley drew up the guidelines years ago."

At this, Neville's expression cleared. It was obvious Mr Weasley could do no wrong in his eyes. "Sounds fair."

"But then he showed me a more recent directive from the Minister giving employees carte blanche to '_exercise their own discretion about the use of spells in Muggle areas in the current state of emergency'_."

"What's_carte blanche_?

"Free rein, basically."

"That's crazy." Neville dropped his arms and sat up in his chair. "It goes against – against everything …"

"I know, the potential for abuse … doesn't bear thinking about. It also said anyone breaking the Statute of Secrecy would be subject to the severest penalties. A little contradictory, but there you go."

"Well, that's something." Neville sounded relieved again.

"Is it?" asked Hannah flatly. "Why?"

"Well, you know, it's what we learned in school, isn't it …?" Neville's voice died away.

"That's hardly the point." Hannah rubbed her eyes, then pushed her hands into her hair and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, her face hidden.

Neville gazed at her, puzzled. He didn't quite understand where Hannah was coming from – or why she'd looked at him for a second almost as though_he_ were the enemy. She raised her head and shrugged. Her expression was stony. "I trust Mr Perkins anyway."

Warily, he said, "That's good."

"I don't think he'd do anything irresponsible. The boy was acting really weird – that thing … he could have made it do _anything_." He felt a shudder run through her as she reached out and gripped his hand.

They sat for a moment in silence. Then Hannah appeared to shake herself out of her reverie. "I'll tell you the rest later – we should go in for supper, I said we'd only be five minutes. Your gran's going to go mental ..." She caught herself and gazed at him with a horror-struck expression.

Neville smiled. He wished he could tell her not to sweat it but that would only embarrass her more. Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. It was satiny and smelled faintly of apples from the glycerine soap she left on the bathroom sink, overlaid with dust from the Ministry. "You're right. Let's go."

As they walked across the soggy lawn, Hannah gave herself several silent and deliberate kicks – even though the soft leather of her sandals made little impression on her ankles. Susan was right – she was _never_ going learn not to put her foot in it.

* * *

After the washing-up was done, Augusta watched Neville make two cups of tea, and disappear upstairs with large wedges of her new dark fruit loaf, both animals in tow. She'd have to make another cake for the WI now but couldn't work up too much annoyance. It made a pleasant change to have one's baking appreciated by hungry teenagers instead of picked over by hypercritical peers. Still, those two had better be back downstairs within ten minutes, or she'd have something to say about it.

The door at the top of the first landing was opened with an elbow then a few seconds later kicked shut with an overlarge foot, almost trapping Zophy's fluffy tail. The kitten yowled and leapt onto the bed, investigating this new territory with curiosity, flexing her claws on the duvet. Trevor hopped lugubriously to his accustomed corner with its bowls of water. He still had half a beetle left over from breakfast. Not exactly fresh but better than nothing. He closed his eyes and sat crunching, perfectly content.

Neville put the plate and two mugs down on his battered leather-topped desk, making room by shoving a couple of seed catalogues onto the floor. He had a plan. It relied on Gran being too tired to twig what he was up to – a vain hope, in all likelihood. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Hannah had vanished from the table the minute supper was over. She was desperate for a shower, to wash away the claggy dust from the Archive and the London grime lodged under her fingernails. Too bad. She had a bath instead. In her room, she hung her good skirt and jacket on the door to the attic and got into her pyjamas. Twisting her damp hair into a thick pigtail, she wandered downstairs with a vague idea of continuing her conversation with Neville out on the verandah. With luck, Augusta would be nodding over her knitting in the front room, trying to ignore Dad as he cleared his throat over his crossword. She walked past Neville's door on the first floor landing and nearly squeaked with surprise as the door opened and a brown arm reached out and pulled her inside.

"I made you some tea." Neville voice was proud. "Have a seat."

Hannah picked her way through the pot plants on the floor to the chair Neville was indicating; her eyes round as she surveyed the unfamiliar room. It was more like a tropical jungle than a bedroom. Save for one shelf full of books and Neville's school trunk, plants were everywhere – on the floor, crammed onto shelves that ran the width of the room and hanging from the ceiling in baskets. Hannah noticed a familiar plant with beautiful white bell-shaped flowers on the windowsill above the narrow single bed – a Fainting Lily, just like in Professor Sprout's office. At the moment it was pressed dramatically against the window, as though attempting to flee for its life.

"Neville. This is _amazing_. Where on earth do you keep your _clothes_?"

Neville smiled proudly. "Funny you should say that." He went over to the darkest corner of the room where Hannah now saw a narrow, old-fashioned wardrobe. "I don't have a lot of room at the moment because I'm raising some Sensitive Plants."

Hannah raised her eyebrows in disbelief. "Sensitive Plants?"

"_Mimosa Pudica_. Really useful for nervous complaints and – er – some sort of women's problems. Don't ask me. They're for Gran. I can't keep them outside or in the greenhouse because they're really susceptible to changes in temperature - but they need loads of light and moisture. So they're in here." He picked up a spray mister and opened the door of the wardrobe, revealing an incredibly bright light and row upon row of a spiky-leaved plant. "I'm keeping my clothes under the bed for now."

It was Hannah's turn to shake with laughter. She had to put her tea down because she was in danger of spilling it all down her pyjamas. "Neville – you have NO idea how dodgy that looks."

Neville smiled at her uncertainly and closed the door of the wardrobe. Hannah recovered and remembered her manners. "Thanks very much for the tea. And it's really interesting to see your room. But don't you think we'd better go downstairs – won't your gran mind us being up here?" Hannah giggled again. "She might – what was that bizarre expression she used the other day? She might have a_thrombie_."

A small frown crossed Neville's face. "It's my room. Leave Gran to me."

* * *

Augusta hung the tea towel on the door of the Aga and pointed her wand to straighten the chairs around the kitchen table. The girl's father was _still_ standing around like a spare part. For the last ten minutes, he'd fussed at wiping the kitchen table down for the umpteenth time in a row. The man had done nothing all day, save sit in the rocking chair in the kitchen staring at his silly Muggle word games. She did not see why she should be expected to humour him for the rest of the evening. Why wasn't his daughter around to take him off her hands? Ah yes, Augusta grumbled to herself – because she was upstairs, taking yet another bath. She cocked an ear to the ceiling, hearing the loud gurgle as the last of the hot water disappeared down the plughole. She would have to do a Heating spell for her ablutions later – a charm that exhausted her like no other. Was that _two_ sets of footsteps she could hear creaking directly overhead? Yes it was – and two subdued voices overlapping.

For once, Augusta felt quite out of her depth. She could turn a blind eye to canoodling in the side return but at what point ought she to put her foot down? This was her house after all. She stood in the centre of the warm room, her wand still half-raised, listening to the comforting sound of the kettle coming to the boil again. Tonight, she would play it by ear – and tomorrow … Augusta resolved to pop round to see Griselda first thing. She would know how to tackle it, with her funny, new-fangled notions about child-rearing.

Until now, Augusta had managed her grandson perfectly well with the reliable precepts '_seen and not heard'_ and '_don't answer back'_. What was it Griselda said was the fashion nowadays? Setting boundaries or somesuch – something that sounded reassuringly like a spell anyway. Not for the first time, she wondered if she'd done the right thing giving Frank's letters to Neville. Her son had been – well, willful wasn't the word. Strong-minded, like his Mam. But she'd been younger then, and there'd been more family around to help in those long-gone, peaceful days between the wars.

"Tea, young man?" she snapped crisply, snatching the kettle off the hob as its whistle began to fill the room, drowning out the sound of any further movements overhead.

"Er – no, thank you." John Abbott responded in little more than a whisper, barely taking in what had been said to him. His head was aching. Where had Hannah gone – why wasn't she here? He opened his puzzle book fretfully, with such force that he tore a long diagonal rip through the page he was working on. He wandered through to the living room, slumped into the one comfortable armchair and stared into the empty fireplace.

How come he was in this God-forsaken place? No central heating, no shower. How was he supposed to live like that? Something to do with Miriam … but he'd been here for days. Maybe he needed to write more letters. Where _was_ his girl? She should be here, looking out for him, like when they were at home. Home. That was a joke. He had nothing. It was all gone. She was never with him any more, always busy with her own affairs. Abandoned – that's what he was. He felt tears pricking at the back of his eyes and gave an angry shrug. It was no good. He needed a smoke.

Augusta, passing him in the hall, watched him go with relief. She was able to relax into her own chair for once and drink her tea in peace. She picked up her knitting, and heard the back door slam. With any luck he'd stay out there for a while. There was no concentrating - between him and worrying about those children. Not actually children, she reminded herself. That was the problem. She heaved herself to her feet and went to the bottom of the stairs.

"Neville! Do you want another cup of tea?"

With reassuring speed, Neville's head appeared out of his bedroom door. His hair was tousled in the light from his wand, but his expression was calm. "No thanks, Gran. We're fine."

"Come out where I can see you."

Neville walked to the top of stairs, closing his door behind him. What was he trying to hide?

"I hope you two are behaving yourselves in there.'

"Gran!"

"I need your word that you're …" For the first time in his life, Neville interrupted her.

"Gran, PLEASE! We'll – we'll be staying up here for a bit and we won't bother you – if – if that's all right with you."

"Hmph." She'd let it go for now. But yes – certainly she would contact Griselda by Floo tomorrow.

* * *

With a deep breath, Neville closed the door behind him and leaned against it, a relieved grin slowly spreading across his face. He'd done it. He opened his eyes and caught Hannah looking at him, with a glowing expression that made him feel about ten feet tall. Hannah had moved from her chair while he was out of the room, and was stretched out on his bed, propped up on one elbow, draining the last few drops from her mug.

"You don't mind, do you? I've been on my feet all day."

Neville swallowed hard. "Not if you shift over a bit."

Looking delighted, Hannah shuffled over until she was lying against the wall. Carefully, Neville lay down beside her. Hannah put her arm round his waist. "Don't fall off," she giggled. Zophy leapt up onto the pillow, mewing jealously and scrambled over them until she found a spare patch of duvet near their feet. She turned around a few times then dropped down, her head resting possessively on Hannah's knee.

"Where were we?" said Hannah.

Neville had hoped they could postpone talking for a bit but he didn't want to push his luck. "You just finished telling me about when you got back to the office and you didn't want to be in the same room as the water thingy."

"That's right. Mr Perkins was fine. He saw what happened with the boy, he held the gun in his hands, same as me. He carried it all the way back but he couldn't feel anything."

Neville was nonplussed. "Well – why should he?"

"_I _did. It felt – funny – I don't know. My head hurt – it made me feel sick. Even in the bag – I don't know. Maybe I was imagining it. Professor Sprout always said I get too worked-up. Maybe I was just tired." Neville thought Professor Sprout might be right. You couldn't go putting every dizzy spell and headache down to dark magic. He waited for her to go on. Instead, she rolled onto her back, nearly spilling him off the bed.

Hannah lifted her arms and drove her fingers through her hair, massaging the tight skin of her skull. She couldn't discuss her muddled thoughts about the weird stuff happening lately, to her body, actually – not with Neville, not yet. In past years, arriving at School for a new term, she'd always dismissed it as simple adjustment to being away from home. She'd forget about it after a day or two and feel normal again. During the last couple of weeks – moving back and forth across the border between the magical and non-magical worlds – her 'funny feelings' (as Sue and Ernie had always called them) were getting stronger, more frequent and more disorientating than ever before.

Leaving the Ministry en route to some anonymous suburb, she'd feel a sudden electric prickle on the back of her neck. It reminded her of the little shocks she'd sometimes get from the door of her dad's old Ford Escort, or a careless touch with her bare skin to metal clothes rails in Muggle shops with nylon carpets. Then there was the metallic taste in her mouth, like the time she touched a nine volt battery with her tongue when she was four, because Robert MacGregor had dared her. Today with the water gun had been exactly the same – only a hundred times stronger. It fitted with the way her hands had always tingled whenever she had to cast a spell. Sometimes her palms would get so sweaty that her wand would slip. Nerves, Madam Pomfrey had called it, pouring her out yet another dose of her disgusting Calming Draught. Hannah wasn't so sure any more.

If only she could talk to one of her friends – someone who _really_ knew her and wouldn't think she was going doolally. No more than usual anyway, she thought ruefully. She turned her head and looked at Neville. Very close to her on the tiny bed, he was looking at her expectantly, a worried frown creasing his forehead. She shuffled back round to face him, and raised herself up on one elbow.

"I just had this hunch – well, not a hunch exactly …" This was going well. "It got me thinking about the Muggle research stuff I told you about the other day." _Clear as mud - good one Hannah._ She gave up. "Here – I copied a bit out – tell me what you think."

Neville took the parchment she held out to him. At first glance, he could tell that he was only going to understand one word in five. In Hannah's round and elegant handwriting he read the following snippets.

_Abstr:We present findings from stages one and two of the second SRIF allocation. Funding was secured to investigate the application and effects of amplitudes of magical wave activation energies on Muggle telecommunications systems over large areas. Using a real-world Muggle system model we calculated that under a certain size, activation barriers would be negligible but that this would require further research. _

_Analysis:At this stage, total energy calculations confirm the potential utility of combining Muggle technology with magical wave activation for Defensive applications. A signature of this process is its precision and stealth, with exciting prospects for spells to be developed for a wide range of Muggle Artefacts. Continued research will be required to counter dependent, though localised, activation energy effects in lower life forms noted in stages one and two. _

_Conc:Unfortunately, the necessity to comply with existing Magical legislation has forced curtailment of the work at the end of stage two before sufficient funding could be secured._

As he studied the notes, Neville could sense rather than see Hannah's tense, expectant expression, as her head rested on the pillow next to his. He decided to start with a question that wouldn't reveal the depths of his ignorance. "What's SRIF?"

"Spell Research Investment Fund."

"Um." He discarded the remnants of his Gryffindor pride. "Can you tell me what the rest of it means in English?" To his relief, Hannah laughed.

"I'm sorry – I know it looks like gibberish. I've been staring at this stuff all afternoon until my eyes have gone funny. I took more notes – do you mind?" Hannah reached over into her bag sitting on the floor. Neville could feel the warmth of her skin through her cotton pyjama top. What was she trying to _do_ to him? She collapsed back against the wall and started rifling through the pages of her notes.

"OK – this is the basic story – as far as I can understand it. This group of wizards were conducting experimental research on Muggle telephone lines." Neville thought about interrupting and decided against it. Hannah seemed to read the question in his mind. "The black wires that birds perch on between Muggle houses."

Neville nodded firmly. "Yes, I've seen those."

"They were funded to look for new ways to gather intelligence during the Grindelwald War. You remember when that was, don't you?" Neville nodded again, feeling slightly injured. He wasn't _that_ slack-witted. Hannah continued. "The new spells were designed to intercept enemy owls and prevent messages getting through, by confusing them and forcing them to land near certain sites, where they could be captured."

"Wouldn't that catch friendly owls too?" asked Neville, thinking of Hebe.

"No, because one thing they did was create a new hybrid spell. It was pretty interesting actually – a combination of a Summoning and a Shield Charm that worked like a filter. It recognised owls with messages originating in England and Shielded them so the Counfounding part was only triggered by owls crossing continents. Then the Summoning bit kicked in."

"Clever," said Neville, thinking about the dismal failure of his sixth year Charms project. He'd scored a 'Poor' for Ingenuity and only an 'Acceptable' for Practical Application for his idea of combining Hot Air and Obliteration Charms to clear up spills and wet footprints – useful for bathrooms, he'd thought. He been rather proud of it until Hermione had pointed him in the direction of Siphoning Charms, unfortunately too late to help him redo the coursework. Something occurred to him. "Hang on though – what if you were in England but you sent a letter abroad – what would happen to the owl bringing your answer back?"

Hannah's reply was gently scolding. "That wouldn't have happened, Neville. There were restrictions on international communication during the Grindelwald War, remember?"

"Should I?" asked Neville, looking down to avoid letting Hannah see the glint of mischief in his eye. However, breaking eye contact gave him a view that was _way_ too distracting, so he immediately looked up again, attempting to appear innocent. Hannah hadn't noticed anything. She was still chuntering in a vaguely Hermione-ish way.

"Well, it_did_ come up in our History of Magic exam but …" Neville couldn't help grinning. Hannah rolled her eyes good-naturedly.

"OK, you got me. Shall I go on?"

"Please do."

"So, they had this idea and it worked well in laboratory conditions – _but_ once they tested it in the real world the whole thing ended up being abandoned."

Neville was finding all this a bit dry, to say the least, but he did his best to sound interested. "How come?"

"Because when they activated the spells, owls weren't the only things that got caught in them – they also got Muggle carrier pigeons."

Thank goodness. A less embarrassing gap in his knowledge. "Muggle _what_ pigeons?"

"Birds Muggles use to carry their own messages – well, sometimes. It's more of a hobby really – breeding and racing them and that …"

Eh? Racing message birds – a _hobby_? What a waste. Why'd they bother with – what did Hermione called them? Stamping and litter boxes, something like that. Muggles were an odd lot, that was for sure. Hannah was _still_ waffling about history. A good thing she looked so nice waving her arms about excitedly, or he'd have fallen asleep by now.

"Not magic birds of course – but they have this amazing homing instinct. It's where the Persian Mage Ostanes got the idea of breeding magical birds for delivering messages way back when."

"I s'pose that was in our History O.W.L. too?"

"No. It's a footnote here." Hannah leaned over Neville again and started flipping through the stack of parchment on the floor. Neville put his hand on the pile and stopped her.

"It was a joke. Go on." He seized the opportunity for a cuddle by slipping his arms around her waist, before she could move back to her place against the wall. After a momentary struggle while Hannah attempted to wave the parchment in his face, she relaxed. She started talking again, her head now resting on his chest, her voice rather slower and more dreamy than before.

"The really sad thing is, the spell didn't just confuse the pigeons – it killed them. Not that the wizards were that bothered. That's the bit about 'localised effects on lower life forms'."

Neville was struggling to stay alert. He wanted to go on cuddling, maybe even see what kissing would be like lying down ... At any rate, he wanted to forget about sixty year old spells that had nothing whatsoever to do with Muggle-baiting, as far as he could tell. But Hannah was on a roll – and maybe the story would get more interesting if he hurried her along. He blinked and stifled a yawn. "So what's this bit about '_curtailment of the work … blah blah … before sufficient funding could be secured'_ – why'd they get shut down?"

"Because it was really expensive. Fine in testing but it didn't scale. You can imagine how much power it would take to cast a spell over the whole of the Muggle telephone system in Britain." As Neville had only the haziest idea of what a telephone was, he couldn't really. He decided not to mention it.

"Someone at the Ministry – after throwing Galleons at them for five years – finally figured out that it would take massive amounts of manpower to maintain. They might have been able to maintain it for about five minutes a day, but what use would that be? Whoever held the purse strings must have jumped at the chance to cut off their funding. Maybe they thought they were all crack-pots anyway, for being interested in Muggle stuff. People usually do." Neville couldn't disagree with that one either, so he kept quiet.

"So you've got experimental magic that's really resource-intensive and the usual wizard mindset that interfering with the Muggle stuff is more trouble that it's worth – no wonder the project ground to a halt. And that was it – the people in the group got split up or moved back into to less controversial research and this got stuck on a shelf and forgotten about."

Neville's eyes were closing. He wanted to listen but he still couldn't see for the life of him what this had to do with finding the spell they were looking for. Hannah seemed to have run out of steam for the moment too. She was staring into space, frowning. She looked dead tired. Her blue eyes had big dark circles under them.

"Maybe we should go to bed soon," said Neville. The words sank like stones into the silence. Oh God – he hoped she didn't think he meant … Hannah's brow cleared and her eyes focused again. She smiled, not looking shocked or offended at all. Her mind was still elsewhere.

"Sorry Neville. I'm making a pig's ear of explaining this. It's all running circles around in my head."

"It's fine. I just feel really thick. I've never even done Muggle Studies."

"You're not thick. I've been thinking about this stuff for years. You know I was planning on specialising in Muggle liaison before I left Hogwarts?" Neville shook his head but he wasn't surprised. "I knew I'd need to know as much as possible about how Muggles do things – the whole world and not just what I picked up at home. I got used to thinking about why things are like they are, you know?"

"Not really, I'm afraid."

"I'll try and keep it simple. What gets used up every time a witch or wizard casts a spell?"

"Er – power."

"Exactly. I_think_ that's this thing here – 'magical wave energy'. Most of the time we don't even think about it. We can even draw it without knowing it sometimes – like babies do."

Neville had woken up a bit and was getting interested again. "And like you and those mushrooms."

"Yes. We don't need to understand how it works – or why it's different from what Muggles use to make things work – like telephones. But this work they were doing – it acted directly on the technology. If they'd found some way to make it more efficient – if, say, they'd had someone who knew a bit about how Muggle stuff works …"

Neville still didn't see it. "How would that have helped?"

"Because magic always leaves a trace."

"Does it?"

"Oh come on, Neville!" exclaimed Hannah. 'We learnt it with Professor Lupin in third year. That's basic Defence theory."

It probably was. Why did stuff like that never stick in his head?

"It's more noticeable in Muggle areas because of low atmospheric magic which is why you can get away with it in the holidays but not away from this house."

_Oh yeah_. "That makes sense."

"This bit here – they were _onto_ something – listen. "_Varying amplitudes of magical wave activation energies … activation barriers negligible blah blah … total energy calculations confirm the potential utility of combining Muggle technology with magic … Defensive applications … blah blah precision and stealth … exciting prospects … for a wide range of Muggle Artefacts._ It's saying that they were planning another stage investigating how to tap into different types of energy and combine it with magic. If they'd got funding."

"What other energy?"

"I'm not sure. Electricity maybe - or other energy sources."

"Oh." She was losing him again.

"The problem was, all those guys could really do were Experimental Charms. All talented wizards and witches and really powerful – but the project team was totally unbalanced. All their first-hand experience was with magic, so even though they had these ideas, they couldn't work out the practicalities. They needed someone who understood the Muggle side of things. They got as far as working out that the quantity of power needed to cast any sort of spell could be minimised – but there was no one to work out the calculations."

Neville was finally starting to see where this might be going. "So you think that the person who changed the traffic light …"

"… the person who murdered my Mum …" Hannah's voice nearly broke but she controlled it. Neville tightened his hold around her and stroked her still-damp hair.

"You think they could have been using the same idea?"

"I do. It fits."

"But couldn't they have just done an everyday Disillusionment Charm or something? It wouldn't have been difficult – Mr Weasley said …"

"Yes – of course they could. And then we'd only need to find out how to trace it."

"It _would_ have made a bit of a splash I suppose…"

"That's right – a big blip of magic in a totally Muggle area."

Neville whistled. "You're right – it would've had the wizard's fingerprints all over it – at least for a while."

Hannah's voice was high and excited, the way it had been when Mr Weasley had first posited his theory in the Leaky Cauldron nearly a fortnight ago. "Even the Ministry man should've noticed – it wasn't_that_ far from the car. But if I'm right, and it was someone who understood how the light worked …"

"Eckleck – something or other …?

"That's right – understood electricity and could harness it alongside a tiny, carefully calculated amount of magic – it would be a lot less noticeable. You could cover your tracks." Hannah raised her head and dug her chin into Neville's breastbone, looking at him imploringly. He could feel the whole trembling length of her body pressed against him. He forced himself to concentrate on her words.

"But if it was so small … doesn't that mean it could've completely disappeared by now?"

"No. It _has_ to still be there if you know where to look," she said with decision. Neville hoped this wasn't just wishful thinking on Hannah's part. He wanted to be convinced. Her voice was slowing again and slurring with tiredness. "I think it was someone who knew about this research and figured out how to create stealthy spells on Muggle Artefacts that come in way under usual detection tests. Maybe even someone on the original project."

Neville raised an objection. "You just said none of them knew about Muggle stuff."

"Not in the main team, no, but I bet there were dozens of people who worked in the same department. Less powerful wizards. Drudges. Muggle-borns without a Mummy or Daddy to give them a leg up in the Ministry."

She had a point. But he didn't really see that it got them any further. They still didn't have the stealthy spell – and even if they worked it out, how did that help them with the traffic-whatsit? He put the question to Hannah. She looked despondent.

"I know how the traffic-light works which should help a bit. If we can work out the spell – maybe we can find out what sort of trace it would leave. Then all we need is the magical evidence."

_All?_ thought Neville. He tried to be encouraging. "I might be some use working out the curse …" It was no good. "But as for the other thing, I wouldn't have a clue."

Hannah sighed. "No. I haven't the foggiest either." Neville didn't feel optimistic. Whatever the Ministry used for detecting illegal magic, tests like that were official secrets. They'd have to steal them somehow or ...

He had one of his infrequent brainwaves. Would Hannah go for it? "I've had an idea," he began tentatively.

* * *

The house was quiet. Hannah had gone off to work, Neville was in the old conservatory. Mr Abbott had announced that he was going for a long walk and had stomped off in the direction of the Hill directly after breakfast. Augusta had suggested an umbrella and a flask of hot tea, to no avail. The man could die of exposure for all she cared. She crouched down in front of the fire in the parlour and threw her velvet kneeler onto the hearth.

"Griselda? Are you there?" All Augusta could see were the flagstones of her friend's sadly dirty kitchen floor. She coughed. The litter box was far too close for comfort. Two squashed and matted heads appeared around the doorway. _Go away._

"Zelda?" she shouted a little louder. A gust of unseasonably cold air blasted round her ears. A pair of gnarled feet in sensible sandals shuffled into view.

"For heaven's sake Gussie. How many times do I need to tell you to just let yourself in?"

Augusta struggled to her feet, smoothing down her second-best navy. She tidied her hair in the glass over the mantelpiece and stepped into the fire.

* * *

"I'm not entirely clear what it is you're worried about, Gussie dear. It seems as though you've handled the situation perfectly well thus far."

"Handled it?" said Augusta in a gloomy voice, helping herself to sugar. "I've done nothing but encourage them, so it seems."

"I must admit I'm surprised Gussie. Impressed too. I would never have imagined you could show such – flexibility."

"Soft. That's what I've been. And it's all going to blow up in my face – "

"Calm down, for heaven's sake. Have an Eccles cake." Griselda pressed down the plunger and filled the coffee mugs from the cafetiere – her latest purchase from her new favourite Muggle shop. Ikea, it was called. Wonderful place. "Now. Begin at the beginning. Who's the girl?"

"Hannah Abbott's the name. In his year. Hufflepuff. Her mother's dead – last year, in a motoring accident. The Weasley fellow told me there might be more to it. Wouldn't be the first time."

"No, indeed." They both sighed, lost in their private thoughts for a moment – two old women who'd seen plenty and lost too much. Griselda broke the silence. "What about the father? It was kind of you to take them both in. But then, you've always been a good soul, Augusta."

"Damn fool more like. That's another thing! He seemed all right at first – unassuming enough little fellow. But he's starting to seriously get on my wick." As usual around each other, the two old friends found themselves slipping into the vernacular of their shared childhood.

"A Muggle-born, eh?"

Augusta nodded. "Why should that signify, Griselda? Are you suggesting I'm prejudiced?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Gussie. The name rings a bell …I wonder why?"

"The mother perhaps – it was in _the__Prophet_ , apparently."

"No-o. That's not it. I remember – it's the girl! I examined her in Transfiguration. Dropped her wand at the crucial moment. Havoc. Entire exam hall had to be evacuated …"

Augusta unthinkingly took a second Eccles cake and settled back into her astonishingly comfortable seat. "Hmm. Can't say I'm surprised. She's as nervy as Neville used to be – although thankfully he's improved since, well, you know …"

Griselda rolled her eyes and smiled kindly. "Since he assisted in the apprehension of ten known Death Eaters," she concluded on her friend's behalf.

"Quite. But it concerns me – I'd hoped Neville might meet someone a little less … flighty. Like darling Alice. Someone capable, to keep him safe."

"Augusta, might I remind you that you didn't actually _meet_ Alice until she was twenty-two?" Griselda fixed Augusta with a penetrating stare.

"Oh, very well. Of course I'm protective – what can you expect?"

"Protective is all very well my dear but I could also remind you that a few years ago you were sitting in this very room worrying that Neville might be a Squib. Neville! With his heritage. I said you were being ridiculous then, and I'm saying it now. Besides, as I was going to say, before I was so rudely interrupted – about that girl."

"What about her?"

"Not particularly talented in the usual sense – no great power – although her written papers weren't bad. Diligent. No – it was that fluff she made in the practical that made her stand out. She didn't give the wrong incantation, the movement was exemplary. She almost passed out – face like a beetroot. She dropped the wand as though it simply slipped from her grasp."

Augusta shifted the squashy cushion behind her back, making an effort to sit up. Were there no springs in this sofa? "So? The girl was suffering from exam nerves – and the heat of that Hall in mid-afternoon – Lord knows, even _I_ remember it."

"Perhaps. But I'm not so sure. I've seen it too many times. Always Muggle-borns. I bet Poppy would know. Probably been keeping an eye on her for years."

"Know what?"

"The girl's over-sensitive. Not that it's any great boon …"

"What on_earth_ are you talking about, Zelda?"

"It's a known condition. They can sense magic in the air – a lot more than most of us magical folk. Doesn't show up at school generally, in the hubbub. It makes their own magic difficult to control. But it can be terribly useful, if it's detected, and understood."

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed. I don't think you should worry too much about Neville's heart getting broken. You know the saying. _The magic shapeth the man_ – or woman. She seemed like a nice enough lass to me."

"I still don't see how that's going to help me keep two seventeen-year-olds in check. Merlin! I thought I'd be spared that with Neville at least. But he's getting more headstrong every day." Augusta scrabbled in the sleeve of her blouse for her handkerchief. "I can see Frank in him – oh, it's hard, Zelda."

Her friend reached forward and clasped her friend's hand tightly. Her dark eyes were as bright as a robin's, peering out from behind the folds of wrinkles. "Be glad Gussie. Be glad you have this second chance with Frank's boy. You just have to trust you've taught him well. And you have."

"Thank you, Griselda. You're a good friend." Augusta recovered her composure and tucked her handkerchief away with a final sniff.

Griselda looked at her a little mischievously. "After all, what's the worst that can happen?" Augusta glared at her, as she struggled out of the suffocating embrace of the sofa in its cheerful red and gold stripes. Her friend stood to see her out, both beloved moggies twisting around her ankles.

"Drop in whenever you like, my dear. That's what I'm here for. I know it's difficult. He's growing up – you can't prevent it."

"I'm just frightened of him getting hurt." Augusta took a deep breath but couldn't control the fluttering in her heart that came with the fear. "After everything he's … and he could, if they …" She couldn't say it.

"Become serious?" said Griselda delicately. Augusta nodded.

"It's possible, dear. But you don't know that. Nor is it any of your business."

Augusta frowned but didn't argue. She was done arguing. Perhaps she even welcomed a little more happiness in the world, after everything they'd all suffered. All she knew was that she couldn't muster the energy to haul Neville back into line anymore. Not with that little minx around to show off to, any road. Augusta smiled indulgently. Talking to Griselda always calmed her down, helped her see things in proportion. What did it matter? They could all be dead within the month. She'd leave them to it, she decided. She felt better, ready to get back and bake that pie for the Bring and Buy next Saturday. And then there was Neville's birthday to plan for …


	9. A House That Lacks

_Thanks a million to the Qs of A, Mullvaney, Skruvsta and Seaspray for their support and feedback on an earlier draft of this chapter and to Surburban House Elf, for a fantastic job beta reading, as always. _

Chapter Nine – A House That Lacks 

The rest of the week was busy. On Tuesday Neville had a letter to write, as well as his usual tasks around the house and garden. Gran had said very little at breakfast. He expected a lecture after Hannah had left for work, but Gran simply ran through the day's work with him as normal and departed for Mrs Marchbank's.

The rest of the week, while Hannah was at the Ministry, Neville did his best to be friendly to Mr Abbott if he bumped into him around the place. He didn't get very far. The man was vaguer than Professor Binns, even when addressed directly. He did little now but sit and brood, usually slumped in Gran's particular arm chair, which Neville thought was a bit cheeky.

In the evenings, Neville and Hannah settled into a routine of going up to Neville's bedroom. Once Hebe had delivered a prompt reply to Neville's letter on Wednesday morning, there was little more to talk about. Comparing notes about their respective days would soon give way to more interesting pursuits. Neville thought he'd have satisfied his curiosity about kissing lying down by now but, for some reason, it never got old. At ten-thirty without fail Gran would begin to lock up downstairs, making plenty of noise rattling around in the kitchen. Whispering a breathless goodnight, Hannah would vanish upstairs without a sound. A moment or two later, Gran's heavy footsteps would creak past his door, then pause. "Goodnight, you two!" she would call, a newly questioning, uncertain note in her voice.

"'Night Gran," he would mumble.

"Goodnight Augusta!" Hannah's silvery tones would ring out from her little room under the eaves. Neville would lie for a few minutes more staring into the darkness, grinning and feeling a bit stunned. Then he dragged himself to his feet and got ready for bed by the light of his wand. He couldn't complain. As bedtime routines went, it certainly beat what he was used to.

As well as his usual chores, it fell to Neville to refurbish the brooms Hannah had found in the outhouse. It wasn't work he'd ever done before and he found it almost as soothing and satisfying as gardening. For the first time in his life, Neville elected to stay indoors on a sunny Friday afternoon in the summer holidays. He'd decided he could put off tying up the raspberry canes for a day or two, despite Gran's warnings about high winds over the weekend. While he clipped unkempt twigs and lashed new ones, while he sanded and polished the rough handles, Neville read and reread the letters his grandmother had given him as an early birthday present. They must have belonged to his mum, because they were all in his Dad's handwriting, save for one little fragment appended to one of the earliest letters. The note read:

_Frank managed to get here tonight after all. Weeks of waiting, only to say goodbye again so soon. I am happy though. I love Frank and I know he will love me however long we are apart. It will feel strange to return to school, without him to look at during meals and dream about in lessons. Ten endless months until we meet again but then we will be together at long last – forever this time._

The next letter was dated a day later, and was written on Ministry headed parchment.

_Darling Alice,_

_You'll like it here – it'll suit us down to the ground. But Rufus caught me off guard today while I was thinking about last night. I don't know how I'm going to beat him this week if thoughts of you keep popping into my mind at inopportune moments! It's late, I'll write more soon but I just wanted to remind you I'm thinking about you. Don't let that slimy git Peasegood sit next to you at dinner. I've got his number. Love always, Frank. _

The letters dated at regular intervals over the next several months mostly described the details of Auror training. Reading about the arduous and dangerous tests his dad had cheerfully undergone made Neville feel a bit strange. He'd grown up accepting that what Gran and his other relatives said was true – that there was no possibility he could follow in his parents' footsteps. For years, he'd just been grateful that he'd got into Hogwarts. He remembered what he'd said to Gran the morning he went to meet Hannah in London – could it really have been only three weeks ago? – that he'd never wanted to be an Auror. It wasn't quite true. Poring over his dad's letters, Neville finally acknowledged a long-buried secret ambition – one that he now realised had burst to the surface the moment he learned that the Lestranges had broken out of Azkaban. Neville shrugged and ran his thumb over a knot hole in the handle of his mum's old broom. Every disastrous lesson, before and since, confirmed that he'd never had the right stuff.

Defence – until recently Neville had thought he could handle himself well enough. It hadn't come easily but after two good teachers he'd been proud to discover that he had – so he thought – ability and nerve. Potions was another matter. He'd long been resigned to abysmal failure, despite the occasional prickle of annoyance that accompanied the sinking feeling of humiliation and abject misery which followed nearly every lesson. He'd never joined in when Hermione went into a rant about _favouritism_ and_picking on people_ and the _unfairness_ of it all. Before coming to Hogwarts it had been the one subject – apart from Herbology – he'd actually looked forward to. It seemed almost laughable to think about it now but as a child he'd loved standing by Gran's skirts, handing her the herbal ingredients that made up the simples and ointments she was renowned for. Later he progressed to helping chop and shred the plants and roots and had even, on occasion, been allowed to stir the cauldron.

Neville frowned as he absently scoured away at a rough bit on the broom handle. Maybe that murdering git Snape had been right all along – he was useless. If he couldn't keep it together when the pressure was on – what sort of wizard would he ever be? After the Department of Mysteries he'd thought he might be getting somewhere. He'd started to believe he might really belong in Gryffindor, that he was entitled to call himself Frank and Alice Longbottom's kid. One year of Defence with Snape and he'd gone to pieces. He'd let them all down.

Neville tested the broom handle – smooth as silk. _Stop moithering_, the voice in his head that sounded like Gran admonished him. And Hannah wouldn't be best pleased to hear him being so self-pitying either. No point getting things out of proportion. He could always pick up Potions again one day, if he managed to keep himself in one piece long enough. It was totally over the top to blame Snape for messing up his life – he had a chance at three decent N.E.W.T.S and that was a heck of a lot more than some people. Things could be a whole lot worse, considering. Look at Hannah. Loads brainier than him and stuck playing nursemaid to a dodgy civil servant.

He turned the broom over in his hands, admiring its aerodynamics and practicality. It looked almost new. The fragile bubble of his Auror dream, strengthened by successful D.A sessions, never survived longer than his next Transfiguration lesson anyway, never mind Potions. His less than impressive showing in his O.W.L.s. had put paid to it for good. Besides – disguise, tracking – all that malarkey? Harry and Ron could keep it.

* * *

When Saturday came, a short test ride around the garden showed no obvious flaws in either broom. Neville had worried that the in-built flight spells would be disturbed by his amateur refurbishment, but his dad's old broom was even more responsive and willing to be ridden than before. Hannah said that she could feel the vibrations from his mum's before she even lifted it off the ground.

"So – where are we going to go then?" Hannah called down from her perch near the back chimney pot.

"You should come down." Neville practised climbing rather hesitantly, and hovered uneasily in front of Hannah. "Someone from the village might see you."

"They'd need binoculars," grumbled Hannah. "All right, all right. I don't want to get you into trouble." She sank to the lawn with good grace.

"I thought Hufflepuffs were meant to be the sensible ones." Neville landed without a wobble. He was glad she was pleased with the broom. She looked really happy, with her hair flying and roses in her cheeks. More like the Hannah he knew than the wan shadow who returned from her days in the dusty bowels of the Ministry.

"Sensible!" Hannah zoomed and banked very close to the ground, as Zophy attempted to pounce on a twig trailing from the broom. "What a nerve. I hope you don't mean me."

"As if I could." Neville decided to tease her. "I'm talking about that stuffed shirt Macmillan and that other chinless bloke you hang round with – Featherstone-double-bracket-something-or-other."

"His name is Justin Finch-Fletchley," said Hannah haughtily, weaving over and under the washing line at top speed, maddening Zophy into a frenzy. "And I'd rather have sensible friends than your lawless lot."

"Hermione'd be surprised to hear herself described as lawless." Neville grinned. "You'll have to mention it to her when you next see her."

"No way. I'll be on my best behaviour. She scares me silly."

"Come off it. She's _nice_."

"Well, if nice now means bossy and terrifyingly clever, I'll take your word for it." Hannah turned once too quickly and teetered for a minute, flailing her arms wildly, before slipping off sideways to land on the grass. The broom somersaulted into the raspberry canes. They were flailing in the blustery wind, Neville noticed guiltily. Zophy pounced in, delighted. "Gerroff, cat," Hannah grabbed the kitten to stop her from wrecking the broom. "What day was it Hermione said she could come?"

"Monday – as you well know."

"I think I might have to throw a sickie."

"And then where would we be? You know she's our only hope of coming up with something to find the spell traces on the traffic lights."

Hannah frowned and lay back on the grass, cuddling Zophy and scratching the kitten's fluffy ears. "Never mind Hermione Granger. I've had an idea – for our maiden voyage. I'd like to go home."

"Home?" Neville was dubious. "That doesn't sound like a wise idea."

"We can go when it's dark. Please Neville. I'll be in and out in ten minutes. I really need to get some more clothes now I'm working. I'm getting sick of washing and wearing the same skirt and blouse every day."

"Gran said you could borrow something of hers."

"You _are_ joking? Even if they fitted, it'd be …" Hannah shuddered.

"…weird," Neville finished. "Fair enough. Shall we go tonight?"

"Really – you mean it? Neville, you're the _best_."

Neville flung himself down beside her. "It doesn't get properly dark until around ten, so we can set off after Gran's gone to bed."

"I hadn't thought of that. Shouldn't we tell her?" Hannah looked worried.

"You really_are_ law-abiding aren't you? She'll only fuss. She doesn't even know I can ride a broom now – look!" Neville jumped up and got back onto his dad's broom. He soared into the air and did his version of hanging upside down from the handle – this time without needing Madam Hooch to rescue him or fearing that at any moment he was going to plummet to the ground.

"Very fancy – isn't that a Sloth Grip Roll? My turn."

* * *

The night was air was crisp and it was quite blowy, but no worse than it had been all week. However, even at a quarter to eleven, it wasn't as dark as it could have been. Neville nearly had second thoughts when they were aloft and looking around for the river, the landmark that would take them due west for the first part of the journey. He'd been glad to learn that Hannah's home, in a suburb of Durham, was only forty miles away. The Cushioning Charms had been hardest to reset, and he couldn't have done it quite right because the woodiness of the handle was definitely perceptible after five minutes or so.

He'd never flown so high in his life and resisted the temptation to look down, instead fixing his gaze on the ribbon of lights in the distance that marked the road they would follow for the greater part of the journey. "You've done an amazing job with these, you know," Hannah said, sounding matter-of-fact and not at all nervous. She dropped back from her position in the lead to fly alongside him as they turned north along the motorway.

"It wasn't that hard," he said, feeling a warm glow of pride at her praise and then a swoop of panic as his nonchalant shrug caused the broom to lurch for a second. He resumed his death grip on the handle.

"You don't give yourself enough credit," she chided gently. "This one's perfectly balanced, the brakes are fine and it's got tons of acceleration."

"Thanks. I dunno really – they're good brooms. We've only ever ridden school ones before."

"Those mouldy bunches of twigs. Death traps." Hannah paused, with the little intake of breath that meant she was unsure whether or not to say what was on her mind. "It can't have been easy …"

Neville said nothing, waiting for her to go on. She made a vague gesture. "I mean … this was your dad's broom." He nodded as she hesitated, giving her permission to continue. "Does it remind you of him?"

He didn't know how to answer that. How could he explain that he'd hated both brooms his whole life until a week ago – sitting in the outhouse mouldering away, reproaching him every time he went to get a rake or trowel, too feeble and scared to even go near them, let alone try and ride them. He wasn't used to talking about this sort of stuff and he wasn't sure his voice would sound normal if he tried to answer her question. He thought about the bare facts he'd given Hannah in his last letter before they met.

_Once a month I go and visit my parents in the spell damage ward at St. Mungo's. Can you meet me outside around twelve-thirty?_

Given Hannah's embarrassment the couple of times she'd let slip a tactless word, Neville had assumed he'd said enough. It was hardly a secret in the wizarding world. Surely she was bound to know all about his parents – from Gran if not from anywhere else? But in the last few days, watching Mr Abbott, he'd started to wonder if the source of her discomfort was closer to home. He found he was able to answer her question after all. "I dunno if _remind_ is the right ... see, I don't remember him – from before."

"Before?"

He stared straight ahead and concentrated on the feeling of the night air rushing past his face, of his chilled and stiffened fingers clutching the broom handle. He experimented with shifting his grip and thought about that as he spoke. "They were tortured by Death Eaters when I was one. They've been in hospital ever since. Their minds are gone."

"Oh," was all Hannah said, very gently.

Neville didn't add that sometimes he thought he could remember his mum. Her voice, her soft hair and gentle hands touching his face. He didn't know if it was a real memory, or one he'd reconstructed out of wishful thinking. His mum was sometimes quite chatty on visits. The disjointed and repetitive words and phrases never made any sense but he sometimes let himself imagine how she would look and sound if she talked like a normal, healthy person. When he did that, he pictured her as she was in the wedding pictures on the mantelpiece, young and pretty despite the outline of her rounded tummy in the white robes. The first picture of the three of them together, his granddad used to say, when he wanted to wind Gran up.

After a few moments, Hannah said, "I'd heard – something – you know how people talk. Gossip … it's dangerous. I didn't want to pry."

He found that by moving very slowly, he was able to let go with one hand and extricate his gloves from his jacket pocket. He concentrated on putting them on with the utmost care, grateful to Hannah for not smothering him with sympathy. They flew side by side in companionable silence for the next ten miles or so.

Neville's confidence on the broom was growing. As he relaxed, he grew more comfortable and the height no longer bothered him as much. They veered upwards to avoid a low-lying cloud and Hannah said, "So, were these brooms for work or play?"

He was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Nimbus is a racing make. Designed for speed. Did they play?"

"At school – yeah. Not after, I don't think. But …" He couldn't put it into words – but somehow it felt right to be using his parents' old brooms now, on a night like this, on a journey with a purpose. Somehow he knew his dad would have approved, of the expedition itself, and of his daring in sneaking off in the middle of the night.

He took a deep breath. "Gran gave me these letters a while back. My dad's letters, to Mum – before I was born. Loads of them. Most of them written the year she was still at school and he was starting his Auror training."

"I remember your gran mentioning he'd been an Auror. That's pretty cool."

"Mum too." For the first time, Neville felt a surge of pride as he read the open admiration on Hannah's face. She was smiling up at him and he smiled back, feeling something knotted inside him loosening, letting him breathe more easily, despite the cold.

"So they were in love that young. How lovely for you. But I suppose it must feel a bit odd – reading about your parents at that age?"

"Well, yeah," he mumbled. "'Specially at first." There was no way he could explain what it felt like to read his dad's words, sound them in his head. No way of describing how it was almost as though his dad was in the room with him, young and strong and ambitious. The voice in the letters wasn't the one belonging to the shadowy figure with the title of 'dad' he visited in the hospital. That burnt-out husk of a human being scarcely ever spoke and never above a whisper. As far back as he could remember, Neville had felt only pity – and, occasionally, boredom and stifled resentment – during the long hours spent dutifully paying his respects to someone who didn't recognise or acknowledge him. He couldn't put into words the burning, choking sensation that swelled in his chest when he read and re-read the letters, the tears that smarted behind his eyes, which made no sense because it was obvious that his dad had been completely, powerfully happy when he wrote them.

"So, apart from Auror training, what else were the letters about?"

He felt a rush of gratitude. Trust Hannah. It was like she could read his mind, knowing exactly what he was incapable of saying.

"Well … you know."

"Their feelings for each other?"

"Yes."

"Plans for the future?"

"That too."

"Reminiscing about the past?" He glanced sideways. She gave him a sly grin. Yes, she was definitely on his wavelength. He nodded.

"Like you wouldn't believe. Do you …"

"What?"

"Do you think it's …" He couldn't think how to put it. Some of the letters made him blush to the tips of his ears. He'd only read those bits once, but it was like the words were branded across the inside of his skull. "I mean, Mum never meant for anyone else to see them."

"Oh, Neville." Hannah flew very close to him, so close he could feel the warmth of her leg through her jeans as it brushed against his. She let go of her broom and patted his arm, flying easily one-handed. "Your mum wouldn't mind – she'd be glad. Glad that this way she could tell you herself how much your dad loved her."

That made sense. Hannah had a way of making things seem so simple. The last of the tension knotting his stomach dissolved and he felt wildly free and happy. He wanted to whoop and yell at the moon and stars but they were leaving the motorway behind them and flying over chimney-pots and handkerchief-sized backyards. Now, Hannah slowed and dropped down below the level of the trees lining the residential streets. Neville followed and shortly found himself flying between two steep banks, with nothing visible on either side.

"It's the railway line that runs along the back of my house. It's good cover. We just follow it now for another few minutes and then we're practically there."

They flew over a chain link fence and touched down on a bare and empty stretch of grass with white wooden posts and bright white lights flaring at either end. "Good," said Hannah. "We can see where we're going. This is the local rec." Neville's puzzlement must have shown on his face and her voice took on an instructional tone. "Recreation ground. It's like a playing field – you know, like a Quidditch pitch only for Muggle games."

"Like football you mean?" said Neville conversationally, shouldering his broom and following Hannah across the grass. She gave him an odd look and he smirked a little. He wasn't _completely_ clueless when it came to Muggle stuff. Sharing a room with Dean for six years had its advantages, even if he did snore like a boarhound.

Hannah started towards the noise of cars in the road running along the side of the field. "You'd think they'd turn the lights out to save electricity but they never bother," she grumbled. "These floodlights shine straight in my bedroom window." She cocked her head on one side, listening. "I didn't think landing in the street would be a good idea. It's just about chucking-out time."

Sure enough, as they walked through the gate, they were passed by small clots and trickles of young men and women, all of whom seemed to be in great spirits, with the exception of one girl in the middle of a bigger group. She was dressed in extremely tight and short robes and a headdress higher than Gran's stuffed vulture. Her eyes were glassy and she stumbled continually as she walked. Neville's hand went automatically to his wand – was she under the Imperius Curse?

With a low moan, she sank down onto the pavement, her bare legs in high-heeled shoes sticking out into the middle of the road. "No-oo. I can't go any further. Don't make me," he heard. One of the other girls grabbed her arm and dragged her back onto her feet.

"Come on now, mate, nearly home," she slurred encouragingly.

Hannah held onto Neville's arm, keeping them in the shadows until the last of the group weaved their way around the corner. "It's fine," she whispered in Neville's ear. "They're Muggles – it's just a hen party."

"A what?" he whispered back, still astonished that anyone could be _that_ drunk and get back up again.

"Never mind, it's not important. Come on – it's along here."

* * *

Hannah walked up the short path, fumbling with her door keys, the familiar scent of roses heavy on the night air. She wished she could see her mother's rose trees in daylight, even though they'd be nothing like as magnificent as last summer, after almost a year's neglect. She found her Yale key with the criss-cross pattern on it by touch and lifted it to the keyhole. It didn't slide in the way it was supposed to. She pushed at it but it skated away ineffectually over the metal faceplate.

"It's open," Neville whispered at her shoulder.

Hannah found that she was shaking, a deep, violent trembling that started in her diaphragm and spread outwards until her legs were barely supporting her. She dropped her bunch of keys, which rang and jangled on the concrete step. Hannah winced. What if the intruders – whoever they were – were still in there?

"Let me go first," she heard Neville whisper. In a daze, she watched him prop both brooms carefully in the alcove between the front door and the bay window, so that they were almost invisible. He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, before letting go to reach for his wand in the inside pocket of his thick, black jacket. He carefully pushed at the door, opening it inch by inch so that it didn't creak.

She came to her senses with a jerk. "_No!_" she whispered, pulling him back. "You'll get into trouble." Hannah took her own wand out of her belt loop and stepped over the threshold. Her foot crunched on something. The air was stale and the house felt empty and cold. "There's no one here," she said in a loud voice designed to scare away her own silly fears and snapped on the hall light.

Slowly, she took in a scene of devastation. The crunching underfoot was glass, every pane in the door to the living-room was smashed. Wallpaper hung in long tattered shreds and the carpet was covered in plaster that had crumbled away from the wall. "We've been burgled."

"I'm – I'm not sure …Hannah, be careful."

Hannah walked over and put her hand on the doorknob. She prodded it open and stood back until she was sure that nothing was stirring in the darkness beyond. She reached in and flicked the light switch just inside the door.

In the living-room the damage was worse. The TV screen was a jagged hole framed in black plastic. The cushions of the three piece suite had been shredded and thrown around the room, foam filling oozing from the dark red leather. The tall bookcase had been tipped onto the floor, more shattered glass covering the carpet. In here, both the curtains and the walls hung in tatters. Hannah reeled, blinking in the harsh overhead light and grabbed the back of the sofa, steadying herself.

"I – I should … call the police. Or something." Her voice rang and buzzed and hurt her ears but the words were muffled, as though she were speaking from the folds of a woollen scarf wrapped a dozen times around her head.

"No. You have to get your stuff and then we have to get out of here, quickly."

She looked where Neville was pointing from the doorway. In an otherwise clear area of carpet, a formless shape quivered, shimmering a glossy red. More senseless vandalism. Lipstick, perhaps? She took a shaky step towards it. If she could just get close enough, she could see what it was.

"Stop Hannah! It's magic, can't you tell?" He moved further into the room and stood between her and the mark on the floor.

Could she? Her head was now buzzing so loud it seemed to drown out every other sensation. Her limbs felt heavy but in a pleasant way, like the tiredness after a strenuous walk. All she wanted was to touch the gleaming, greasy substance on the floor. Neville was blocking her way, both arms outstretched to hold her back. "I can't see," she whined, attempting to push past. Perhaps it would be warm if she stepped into it, a hot bath at the end of a long journey.

"It's a 'stop' sign," she said dreamily, extending her foot to dip a toe.

"Don't TOUCH it!" shouted Neville, gripping her upper arms so tightly that the pain cleared her head for a moment. She slumped against him, trying to remember where she was.

"Ugh. I don't feel … very well." The buzzing was stronger and spreading down her spine and along arms and legs that no longer felt pleasantly heavy but deeply, achingly tired. Neville dragged her bodily back through the living-room door and then out of the house into the fresh air. He shoved her down onto the front step.

"What shall I do?" His voice was tinny and distant over the roar of the blood in her ears.

"M – Madam Pomfrey usually makes me put my head between my knees."

"Right. You do that then." Neville sounded scared but determined. "I'm going to get your stuff, then we're out of here. Which is your room? Never mind – I'll find it."

After five minutes of sitting on the cold step, while the dizziness and tingling barely receded, Neville was back with her blue rucksack bulging. "Can you seal this door, Hannah?"

"Mmm-hm," she mumbled, fumbling for her keys.

"No, I mean_seal_it."

"Oh. Ah – yes." Hannah lifted her head and clutched the hem of Neville's jacket and the hand he held out to her. She dragged herself to her feet, and drew her wand. With what felt like her last ounce of strength she sealed the door and set an Imperturbable Charm.

"Let's go then." They set off in the direction of the recreation ground. She stumbled every other step, despite Neville's steadying arm.

* * *

As they shuffled away from the house, Neville's heart sank. He'd hoped that getting Hannah away from that horrible splotch on the floor would be enough. It had reminded Neville of a puddle of clotting blood. The blood on the floor of the passage that he'd slipped in, as he tried to twist out of the path of the Reductor Curse. The curse that barely touched him and left a gaping hole in his side. The ribs had only taken twelve hours to grow back. His insides had taken longer, but hurt less. "You were very lucky," Madam Pomfrey had said. "The liver has amazing powers of regeneration." He was going to have to get them both home somehow. Could they even make it to the end of the street? He looked both ways – the road was deserted and the nearby houses were dark.

"Hannah, we're going home on one broom. Are you up to navigating, if I fly?"

"Mm, think so," she mumbled, still sounding as if she was about to throw up.

"Good." Neville mounted his broom, pulled Hannah on in front and put both arms round her waist. She was as limp as a wet dishrag. The rucksack was slung on his back and with Hannah's broom to carry and flying his own, his hands were full. If things weren't bad enough, the wind was getting up, cold enough that his face and ears felt like they were being cut to ribbons. As they soared over the house, Neville thanked his stars that the lamplit street was still empty. Hannah's head was nodding again and he had to tighten his hold around her waist to make sure she didn't slip sideways.

After a minute or two, the fresh air revived her a little. She looked up and pointed vaguely to the right of the course they were taking. Changing direction, Neville found the railway line that had guided them the last few miles. The wind howled through the channel of the embankment. Slowly, bumpily they made their way home. The moon had disappeared behind thick clouds and it took twice as long as the outward journey. Neville was grateful for the bright strip of the Muggle road, heavy with traffic even after midnight. Hannah was a dead weight sitting in front of him, her head occasionally nodding and then jerking upwards as she forced herself to stay awake and alert enough to check for landmarks. They didn't talk much.

When Neville landed in his own garden, his back and knees were stiff with exhaustion from controlling the broom and its double load. He tumbled onto the dew-laden grass, leaving Hannah to fend for herself. She had recovered sufficiently to help him back to his feet. He stowed the brooms hurriedly in the old greenhouse and they slipped into the house through the back door. Neville stood in the kitchen and breathed in the wonderful, comforting smell of home – baking and herbs and fresh vegetables in the rack next to the butcher's block.

"Here's your stuff." He held out the bag to her. "We'll talk in the morning. Will you be all right?" She looked at the floor and then up at him, and said in a low voice,

"I – I don't want to be alone. Not tonight."

Neville digested this. "OK, fine – me neither. Let's go."

They climbed the stairs and Neville followed Hannah into his room. His muddled thoughts were sending weird signals to various parts of his body, so he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He should really be paying more attention, he supposed. If only he weren't so_unbelievably_ tired.

"Are there – er – t-shirts in here?" said Hannah scrabbling through the rucksack. "My favourite nightshirt! You're a genius." He dropped his jacket and jeans on the floor, took off his socks and collapsed into bed, waiting for her to stop fussing around in the dark. The mattress sagged slightly as she climbed in beside him. The bed dipped towards the middle and they rolled towards each other.

"Thanks, Neville." He felt rather than heard the whisper against his neck. They moved closer until their limbs were entwined in what were – surprisingly – incredibly comfortable positions. He could feel the rise and fall of Hannah's breath against his chest. Gradually, Neville relaxed. It felt safe and warm and right to be lying here – not kissing, not thinking anything related to _what now_ or_want more. _He too cuddled closer, all his awkward self-consciousness vanishing in the darkness and silence. Slowly they slipped into a cradling, healing sleep. Twice during what was left of the night, Neville half-woke. Both times, after a few moments, Hannah's eyes opened sleepily and she smiled at him, before snuggling deeper into his arms and dozing off again. Each time, the grey half-light of dawn was a little paler. Eventually the first bright shaft of sunlight pierced the gap in the curtains – and Neville woke fully to the knowledge that his grandmother would soon be up and about.

Hannah sat up. "I should go. Why court disaster?" Then she lay down again. "Just a few more minutes," she said with a trace of her old mischief.

"You're feeling better then?"

"Much better for being here. Thank you for last night. I don't know what came over me.

"It was a trap, that stuff, I'm sure of it. It seemed, I dunno …"

"Like it had been put there by someone."

"Yeah. Merlin knows what would have happened if either of us had touched it. We can't just leave it, we have to tell someone."

"I can't tell Dad, he's … not in a fit state right now." It didn't seem the right moment to ask whether Mr Abbott was ill or just a complete pain in the backside. There were more pressing things on hand, such as getting Hannah back to her room before they were sprung, but ideally not before a snog. On second thoughts, maybe that wasn't such a good idea. He hadn't cleaned his teeth before going to sleep. Neville was seized with a sudden fit of self-consciousness and backed away into the gap between the mattress and the wall, increasing the space between their faces by at least six inches.

"So what are we going to do? I'm not mad keen on the idea of telling Gran either." Hannah giggled.

"That's an understatement. No, I've decided – I'm going to tell Mr Perkins."

Neville's heart sank. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. He'll know what to do."

Five minutes later, Hannah slipped out of bed and crept upstairs. Neville watched her go with mixed feelings. It was probably for the best. After some sleep, even cuddling took on a whole new meaning under the covers with not many clothes on. His last conscious thought before falling asleep again was _want … more_.


	10. One We Must Ask

Chapter Ten - One We Must Ask 

On Monday morning, before leaving for the Ministry, Hannah was helping Neville's grandmother clear the breakfast things and wash the dishes. Neville had gone outside to water the beds and examine the high privet hedge that surrounded the house and garden for weak spots in its defences. Hannah was finding it difficult to concentrate on the task in hand, wondering how best to tell Mr Perkins about the attack and fretting at the prospect of having to talk to Neville's scary Gryffindor friend in less than an hour's time. A mug had already slipped from her grasp once, smashing on the tiled floor. Augusta mended it without a second glance. She seemed preoccupied too, which suited Hannah, as it meant she didn't need to attempt polite conversation. She had enough on her mind trying to remember the details of everything she needed to cover. Hermione had been very clear in her letter that she could only spare a couple of hours.

Hannah and Neville had said their goodbyes on the verandah. "You'll be fine, don't worry," Neville said, for the third time in five minutes. She sighed.

"I'm not_worried_exactly. Well, maybe I am … but only because I know I'm going to get muddled and she'll just give me that _look_, and then I'll freeze."

"You've got it all written down, haven't you?"

"Oh, right – look at my notes. That'll impress her, I don't think."

"Believe me, she'll be impressed." The note of quiet pride in Neville's voice made her feel, if anything, worse.

"It's not fair, Neville. You worked out the spell and she's your friend –_you_ should be the one telling her."

"It doesn't matter. You did all the hard thinking anyway – I just came up with the last bit of the puzzle."

"Well, I'll make sure I give you full credit." She sighed again and leaned her head against Neville's shoulder, luxuriating in the sensation of his warm breath disturbing her hair, which was no doubt tickling his nostrils. "I'd better go back in. Your gran shouldn't be doing all that washing-up on her own." Neville's mouth nudged the top of her head.

"Kiss." It was a statement, not a request. She shivered delightfully, and tilted her face up.

"Bye then," she said a few minutes later and, "You're going to have to let me go sooner or later."

"'M not," he stated emphatically, releasing her nevertheless.

* * *

Unfortunately, it seemed Augusta had merely been working up to something. "My mother and father built this house over a hundred years ago," she began in her usual abrupt fashion. "When they passed on, it was handed down to me, as the eldest."

"Oh?" Hannah tried to sound politely interested but couldn't restrain an eye roll as she reached up to store the plates in their designated slots in the Welsh dresser. That was all she needed right now – a trip down memory lane. She turned back to face the sink again. Augusta was moving her wand in gentle stirring motions over the sudsy water.

"Don't you make faces at me, young lady. I'm not telling you a bedtime story."

Hannah jumped and the last plate nearly went flying. "Sorry," she muttered. The old biddy made Professor Snape seem dozy.

"This is still my house," Neville's gran continued. " While you are here, you will abide by my rules. You and Neville will sleep in your own beds – separately. Is that clear?"

Hannah gasped and flushed painfully. She nodded, unable to speak, as her reluctant feet took her back across the kitchen. Augusta was still waving her wand meditatively. She didn't look particularly angry, Hannah was not altogether pleased to note. Anger would be easier to deal with. "And if there are any further _night-time excursions_, the next journey you will be making will be straight back to your own home."

Clearly, a strategic grovel was in order. It wouldn't even be entirely forced – Hannah felt a genuine flicker of remorse under the humiliation. She supposed they _had_ been taking the mickey the last few days. "I'm terribly sorry, Au – Augusta." Calling the formidable elderly witch by her first name still felt unnatural. "It won't happen again."

"Glad to hear it." She paused. "Nevertheless, I'm well aware that I can't keep the pair of you under surveillance twenty-four hours a day, and that within a few days you will both be of age."

_Oh Lord_. Hannah turned away again to point her wand at the egg poacher, floating it across the kitchen to its hook in the ceiling. There was no escape; Augusta was still cleaning dishes with far less than her usual briskness. What on earth was she going to come out with next?

Strangely, it didn't appear as though Augusta wanted to look her in the eye. The remaining knives and forks in the sink had to be cleaner than the day they were made, she'd been washing them so long. Hannah just managed to get the frying pan safely onto its hook before she froze for a second time. If her ears weren't deceiving her, Neville's gran was telling her exactly how and exactly why no witch ever had an excuse for an unwanted baby.

* * *

Throughout her carefully-prepared, formal but direct speech, Augusta kept her gaze on the cutlery leaping out of the water and onto the draining-board. When she had finished, she finally turned away from the sink and fixed Hannah with a beady glare. "Did you get all that?"

"Um." The girl appeared to be unsure of the right etiquette in responding to a lecture on the birds and the bees from old crone like her. Augusta sniffed and held back a smile. Young people – with their unshakeable faith in their power to recreate the world with every generation. She fixed her expression into its fiercest frown. Hannah was looking shiftily at the floor and edging towards the door. "I've – er – got to get ready for work."

Augusta could only hope that some of what she had said would have sunk in. She couldn't stop time in its tracks and go back to simpler days – the days before she'd so foolishly agreed to take in the girl and her father. All she knew was that she didn't want to make the same mistake with Neville as she had with her beloved Frank. At long last the boy was growing into his father's shoes and starting to show a bit of Longbottom gumption. There was no way Augusta was going to let a slip of a girl – especially a flibbertigibbet like this one – bring shame down on their good name.

* * *

Hannah escaped upstairs and managed to reach her room and close the door behind her before collapsing onto her little camp bed and into weak, almost hysterical giggles. In the name of all that was holy – how_embarrassing_. Did the old bat_really_ think she and Neville were …? Hannah shook her head in disbelief and dragged her 'sensible' school shoes out from under the bed. She really did have to get ready for work. She was going to be late at this rate – and what would Hermione Granger think of her then?

As she tied the laces, Hannah's thoughts ran over Augusta's speech. It was useful information – she could hardly pretend to herself that the topic hadn't crossed her mind. Most recently, around ten hours ago. The previous evening, she and Neville had resumed their habit of cuddling and kissing fully-clothed on his bed after dinner. However, for two hours, the vividly fresh memory of waking up in his arms dressed in nothing but her faded, threadbare old nightshirt had refused to be banished. The familiar sounds of Augusta locking up downstairs had arrived not a moment too soon.

Ten minutes later, in her own bed, Hannah had wondered if it was fair on Neville, what she'd started. Yes, she reflected, staring at the moon hanging over the tall trees at the edge of the moor, it _was_ her who had set things in motion by sprawling provocatively across his bed, goodness, only a _week_ ago. She was the girl, wasn't she was supposed to be the responsible one – the strong one? And yet – she wanted more. Hannah had no doubt in her mind that she was in love. The strength of her feelings awed and frightened her in equal measure. Looking back, it seemed as though she'd known from the minute Neville had taken her in his arms, the day he helped her get her magic back. She remembered her tears pouring out, soaking into his neck, as he'd held her firmly and without holding back, high on the Hill with the storm clouds receding and the sun breaking through to burn against her shoulders and the back of her neck.

Her second shoe dangled, as she struggled to untie a big knot in the laces. She felt a troubling mix of gratitude towards Neville, for everything he'd done for her and Dad, as well as a reciprocal wish to comfort him in the same way as he protected her. It was confusing. Hannah forced herself to be ruthlessly honest. There was also fierce possessiveness and … something else, which she hesitated to name but had a definite element of impatience involved. Her embarrassment finally fading, Hannah's mouth twisted in a wry grin. She'd certainly been looking forward to showing Neville her old bedroom. What they'd found in the hall and living-room had put a dampener on_that _silly fantasy. She grinned again, this time mischievously. She wondered what Augusta would think if she knew that her little 'chat' had been quite so useful.

* * *

There was a rap at the door. Hannah looked worriedly at her boss – the interruption couldn't have come at worse time. "Come in," Mr Perkins called. The door opened and a familiar face appeared around it.

"Is there room?" Arthur Weasley stepped across the threshold and grinned. "Good lord, it's considerably tidier in here than I remember it." His bald pate nearly reached the ceiling. "Hello again, Hannah. I've brought a visitor for you – I believe she's expected?"

He shuffled a little further into the room revealing a girl standing hesitantly behind him, swathed in long, dark-blue robes. Hannah brushed a speck of dust from her old grey skirt. _She looks like she's on her way to a cocktail party_. "Come along, Hermione," said Mr Weasley. "No need to be shy."

That'll be the day, thought Hannah. But Hermione wasn't saying much, it was true. She was looking around wonderingly, her eyes coming to rest upon the Muggle artefacts that had been delivered with the morning's memos. There wasn't much to see. The day's batch had mostly consisted of terry towelling socks, jinxed to vanish and reappear at random intervals. Hannah, following her gaze, caught her eye and Hermione smiled in friendly enough fashion, and held out her hand. "Hello, Hannah. How are you? It's been a while, I know, but I never got the chance to say how sorry I was to hear about your mother."

"Oh, that's OK," Hannah stammered, blushing furiously. "I mean – er – thank you." She came out from behind her desk, reaching for the other girl's hand and was surprised to find herself being pulled into an awkward one-armed hug and given a kiss on the cheek. Was the girl going to be nice after all? Damn. Hannah realised with shock and a sense of shame that during her anxious fretting about the meeting, she'd been mixing up the capable, conscientious prefect with the loud-voiced, bossy know-it-all from third year Muggle Studies.

"Great timing actually, sir," said Perkins. "A rather worrying incident – Hannah here was just telling me. Out of our jurisdiction really – I was going to refer it to the Auror office." He frowned and caught Hannah's eye. "But as you're here … ?"

"Please, go ahead," said Hannah gratefully. Why hadn't she thought of Mr Weasley? He was the perfect person to ask for advice.

Briskly, Mr Perkins paraphrased Hannah's rambling version of the devastation they'd found at her old home. "So – this patch of spilled liquid, sir – what's your hunch?" he finished.

"Hmm." Mr Weasley looked pensive. "Describe to me again the effects you felt, Hannah, in your own words please."

"I felt sleepy – exhausted actually. I could hardly move. But at the same time I wanted to go near it – touch it. Neville stopped me."

Mr Weasley frowned. "It certainly sounds like some sort of trap. However, the description means nothing to me, I'm afraid. I could make some enquiries…"

Hermione had been fidgeting restlessly during this last exchange, reminding Hannah of her eagerness to answer every question in lessons. Her attention-seeking behaviour had never washed in Herbology. Professor Sprout had been _fair_, she thought with satisfaction, always giving every student an equal chance to speak. Unlike _some_, she reminded herself bitterly, remembering Potions with the Ravenclaws. Anyone would think the Hufflepuffs had been invisible. She dragged her attention back to the present. Hermione practically had her hand up now. "Er – Mr Perkins?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"The colour and viscosity of the liquid you described reminded me of something – I read about it years ago in _Moste Potente Potions_. It was called Sleepeasy Solution. It's used to – um – _induce dreamless sleep in cases of severe magical injuries_."

Hannah had no little opinion of her own powers of recall but this girl was _good_. Hermione continued, her eyes slightly glazed. "Let me see … yes. It gives damaged nerves a chance to recover and assists the healing process by making sure patients get a good night's sleep. On the downside, it's powerfully addictive and lethal in all but the minutest quantities, so it's only administered when there's significant risk of death from shock. As soon as the patient is out of immediate danger, they have to be dosed with the antidote. The antidote itself has nasty side effects – recurrent nightmares about how the injury was sustained in the first place. The brain needs to process the incident to aid psychological recovery, and the Sleepeasy blocks that. A lot of mediwizards are ambivalent about prescribing it, but sometimes it's the only way."

Hannah considered. It certainly fitted with the symptoms she'd had – but she saw an objection. "I didn't _drink_ any of it."

"We – ell, if there was that much on the carpet, I would think there'd be a fair amount of vapour floating around in the air, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, indeed," interjected Perkins. "Very logical. However, I have a question of a similar nature. Your companion, Hannah – how did _he_ escape, hmm? If, as you say, the effects are …"

"Neville – how is he?" interrupted Hermione warmly. "I've been so worried about him the last few weeks. He was still in so much pain at – at the funeral ..."

"He's fine," said Hannah irritably. "Perfectly recovered, completely over it." How dare the girl sound so concerned? Hannah felt the blood rush to her head in a sudden, overwhelming flood of guilt. It hadn't even _occurred_ to her the exertion it must have taken for Neville to practically carry her forty miles home in a howling gale.

"Oh – I just thought – perhaps that explains it!" exclaimed Hermione. "Er – don't you think so, Mr Perkins?" she added, more contritely.

"Explains what, my dear?" he replied, also somewhat irritably.

"What you were asking before – about why Neville didn't succumb to the liquid on the carpet. Do you think it's possible that Madam Pomfrey gave him Sleepeasy Solution for his injury? H – how bad was it, Hannah? He – he wouldn't tell me when I went to visit him in the hospital wing."

"Two ribs completely destroyed, a few more broken and damage to his liver," mumbled Hannah, staring at the floor. She had to be the most selfish person alive. Neville would be better off if she _had_ fallen into that puddle of gunk.

Arthur Weasley was looking from one girl to the other, a shrewd expression on his kind face. "Well, he certainly seems to have recovered fairly quickly. There wasn't much wrong with the boy who almost hexed _me_ a couple of weeks ago."

Hannah lifted her head. Hermione's face was a picture of surprised respect. Mr Weasley gave a rueful smile and shrugged at Hannah, who grinned weakly back, feeling much better all of a sudden.

"The theory makes sense," he continued. "I'll drop in a report to one of the Aurors on my way back. They can despatch a team and make sure they're dosed with the antidote before they get there." His voice became stern. "Hannah – you and Neville must not go _anywhere near_ your home again, do you understand? Where is the sense in us going to all the trouble of finding you and your father a safe house, if you're going to put yourself at risk by returning to where the person who killed your mother may decide to turn up at any moment?" He stared penetratingly at her while Mr Perkins nodded sorrowfully in agreement.

"Sorry, Mr Weasley." She should have sore knees with all the grovelling she'd been doing this morning. Under cover of stooping to the floor to re-tie her shoelace, Hermione gave Hannah a sympathetic, almost imperceptible eye roll and complicit grin. Buying time, Hannah glanced down and her eyes widened enviously. Hermione's shoes were neat and unscuffed. She made a swift resolve to do some late-night shopping. She had a party coming up – she'd spend some money on herself for once, she deserved it.

"Never mind, my dear," said Mr Perkins. "Just remember that you are at the very beginning of your Ministry training, and that better witches than you have been taken by Dark Wizards."

"Speaking of which –" Mr Weasley's tone was jovial, as though he were attempting to lighten the mood. "How are you finding your placement here?"

"Oh – wonderful, thank you. Mr Perkins is teaching me so much!"

"And what about your – er – personal investigation?"

Hannah blushed. "Not much progress actually, Mr Weasley." She felt terrible for lying to him. Hermione was looking at her quizzically.

"What a shame. Still, I'm glad the job is suiting you. I've heard only glowing reports from my erstwhile clerk." He grinned at Perkins. "And remember – if you do find anything out – anything at all – I want you to come straight to me." Hannah mumbled something she hoped was unintelligible. He turned to Hermione. "See you back at The Burrow, my dear. Will you let Molly know that I'm going to be back late again? That clock of hers is worse than useless these days." He swept out of the office.

Hannah glanced at the clock above the door. The morning was almost half-gone. How on earth was she going to get Hermione on her own? Searching frantically for ideas, Hannah shoved the remaining socks to one side, clearing a space on the workbench so that she could offer Hermione her chair. Then again, perhaps if she could get them _out_ of the office for a bit … "Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee?" she asked politely. The strategy worked even better than she had hoped.

"Why don't you both go?" Mr Perkins chimed in. "No need to hurry back – you girls must have a lot to catch up on."

Hermione followed her down to the canteen. "Two coffees, please," Hannah asked the house-elf at the till. Two steaming mugs appeared on the empty tray.

"Milk and sugar on the trolley," said the elf in a surly voice. She was wearing an assortment of grey dishcloths sewn together and a drop of water dangled precariously from the end of her trumpet-shaped nose.

"Thank you so much. Would you like a hanky?" said Hermione, holding out what was clearly a large cotton hair scrunchie, not a hanky at all.

"Does Miss Clever Witch think I is coming down in the last shower?" scowled the house-elf.

Hannah picked up the tray and headed for a table in the corner farthest from the counter and the door. "It wouldn't have done any good you know. The house-elves here are considered the sole property of the Catering Witch."

"_Property_ – it's shameful." Hermione sat down opposite her and took out the thick wad of parchment Neville had sent her along with his original letter. "I thought it was worth a try."

"Thank you for not telling Mr Weasley why you were coming to meet me."

"It's OK – I didn't have to lie. I have some things I need to do in London myself."

"Oh, that's good."

Hermione sighed. "Not really."

"Er – are you having a good summer? Are you staying with the Weasleys?"

"Just for the moment." Her face took on a guarded expression. "I don't mean to be cagey but I can't really talk about it." _Charming_. She'd only been trying to be polite. "Sorry, Hannah – that sounds horrible but I _am_ really interested to hear what you and Neville are doing."

_I'll bet you are. _"Well, as you're so busy, perhaps I'd better not trouble you."

* * *

Hermione's heart sank. She'd managed to offend her somehow. Not a good start. Perhaps Ron had been right, and she shouldn't have come. It _wasn't_ as though they could really spare the time. She didn't remember Hannah being this touchy at school; she'd always seemed very good-natured, even for a Hufflepuff. The Hannah looking across the table at her now in severe white blouse and grey skirt looked older – warier – mistrustful almost. Perhaps it was the hair – instead of the innocent fat pigtails, the corn-coloured hair fell straight and thick to her shoulders, hiding her face almost completely when her head was down, like now, as she played with the teaspoon in the sugar bowl.

Hermione reached across and gently took the teaspoon out of the other girl's grasp. Hannah's head came up smartly. Hermione helped herself to sugar, even though she didn't take it in coffee, and met the other girl's blazing blue-eyed gaze steadily. "Neville's letter said you needed help working out a spell."

Hannah's shoulders sagged a little and the angry expression faded. "Thank you for coming, Hermione. I really appreciate it. It's not the spell so much – we think we're nearly there with that bit. There's so much to tell you. Did you read the stuff I copied out from the archive?"

"I did – absolutely fascinating. I've always thought there must be more efficient ways to combine magic and science. Have you ever seen the headquarters of the WWN?" Hannah shook her head, looking interested. "There was an article in _Witch Weekly_ once – with a picture. Absolutely enormous place – dozens of elf employees, nearly as many as Hogwarts, working shifts round the clock to keep the power up and running and _such_ drudgery."

"Shocking," Hannah murmured.

Hermione smiled, pleased to see a twinkle in Hannah's eye, thinking how pleasant it was to talk to someone who didn't glaze over the minute she mentioned elf rights. She remembered that in third year Hannah's Muggle Studies mark in the end of year tests had been better than her own. Not that it had _anything_ to do with her decision to give up the subject.

"So if it's not the spell, what is it?"

"It's the physical proof – that the traffic light had a spell cast on it."

"Yes – I can see why you'd need that. Of course, _all_ charms, curses and so on leave some kind of mark on the affected object ..." Her train of thought was leaping several steps ahead but Hermione forced herself to be quiet, seeing that Hannah was bursting to continue.

"Did you know that in non-magical areas, the mark can sometimes be visible to the naked eye, if it's strong enough?"

"_Really_?" she asked sceptically. "Where did you read that?"

"It's in the research."

"I didn't see it anywhere." Hermione felt a little annoyed with Neville. Why ask her to help if he wasn't going to give her all the facts?

"No – I found that bit after we sent you the letter," said Hannah airily, not seeming to notice her irritation. "Sometimes it's a heavy imprint like sealing-wax, sometimes a scorch or burn mark with Dark spells. With simpler, everyday spells, it's a coating of some kind – perfectly harmless but highly persistent."

"Well at least _that_ fits in with what we learned in last year."

At this, it was Hannah's turn to sound grumpy. "I wouldn't know."

"We had to perform tests on objects we'd Transfigured." Hermione tried to keep her voice light and pleasant but she was still feeling a little ruffled at having been caught out and was uncomfortably aware that she probably sounded like the worst kind of know-all. "You have to use a special incantation though, to make the residue visible."

"That's right!" Hannah said excitedly. "We worked it out in the end. Neville found an incantation that worked." Hermione was doubtful.

"_Neville_ did? How did you test it?"

"Well, first of all we thought that the spell on the traffic-lights would most likely have been a simple Transfiguration. So we turned his gran's best hat into a lion and back into a vulture."

"And …?" Hermione was becoming intrigued. She could have sworn that Neville had told her he'd forgotten everything he'd ever learnt for his Transfiguration O.W.L., and a bit more besides.

"It took fifty goes to find the right combination of words but we kept trying. When Neville got the incantation right, it started glowing like anything."

"What did you start with?"

"Prior Incantato," said Hannah, with a haughty frown, as though daring Hermione to challenge her.

"Of course," she said hurriedly, quelling the urge to exclaim, _But that's advanced magic!_ "But that can't have been right because ..." Hannah interrupted her.

"Because it acts directly on the wand, not the object of enchantment."

Hermione could hardly believe what she was hearing. It seemed as though Hannah and Neville made quite a team. Whenever the Gryffindors had been paired for lessons, and Hermione had been put with Neville, she'd invariably been the one who came up with the solution to whatever task Professor McGonagall had set. Not that she'd minded. She wondered uneasily if it had been entirely to Neville's benefit. "So …" she began again hesitantly, "_Neville_ found the right command word?"

Hannah smiled and nodded. "Do you have any idea how many Latin words there are for 'appear'? Loads. _Emergo_ is the one that worked in the end."

"So what happened?"

"Well, first he spoke the command, and all this bright stuff appeared on the hat and we thought we'd done it. We were so excited."

"That's as far we got in lessons," Hermione said wistfully. "I thought that was the end of it."

"No – because it didn't stay. All the shiny stuff leapt off the hat and onto his wand like iron filings. Then it disappeared into the wand within a few seconds. It was incredibly frustrating."

"I can imagine." Hermione smiled to herself. She was beginning to warm to Hannah.

"So, we thought that if we kept the wand further away, we might be able to take a sample of the stuff. I tried it with mine and it worked. You can scoop it up – we used a wooden spoon from the kitchen – not metal, that makes it disappear even quicker than the wand. But once you've got it on its own, it goes inert and sort of powdery. If you trap it in something – we used a glass jar – and then repeat the words and wand movement, the powder starts glowing again but stays put. Neville reckons the Ministry must take a sample for every wand that gets made, and that's how they track underage magic and stuff."

Hannah sounded proprietorial – almost proud – and the theory sounded quite sensible, although Hermione couldn't help thinking it might be a touch more complicated than a room full of glass jars setting off alarms left, right and centre. "When did you do all this anyway?" she asked.

"Yesterday afternoon. Neville's gran's out a lot of the time. And my dad was off somewhere so we had the place to – to ourselves." Was that a touch of awkwardness in Hannah's voice? Hermione couldn't resist prodding her a little.

"Neville's very good at practical spell-work isn't he?"

"Oh yes," Hannah nodded eagerly. "He's ever so clever." That settled it, thought Hermione. She knew Neville better than most and clever _wasn't_ a word anyone would use to describe him. Creative in his own way, especially with plants … kind and sensitive, with inner reserves of quiet strength – yes. Clever? No way. Hannah must be keen on him. How lovely.

"Are you planning to go back to school next year?" She hoped for Neville's sake that the answer would be yes. She'd noticed over the years that Dean and Seamus often didn't make much of an effort to include him in their conversations – which meant he'd be alone in the common room and at lessons and meals a lot of the time.

To her dismay, Hannah's face clouded again. "Can't," she said shortly. "My dad needs me. And I have a job now – I'd be daft to give it up."

Hermione changed the subject. "Suppose you tell me about what you need. Obviously you aren't going to be able to make the original spell traces on the traffic light glow, because you don't have the wand."

"Exactly. And if most of the energy used to power the spell came from the light itself, which is what the research suggests I _think_ …" Her voice trailed off doubtfully. Hermione nodded firmly.

"That's how I understood it too."

Hannah continued, looking relieved. "There's going to be very little residue to find."

"OK. Let me think." Hermione put her head in her hands and began to go over everything she knew already. She leafed through the papers Hannah had copied out from the Muggle archive. She barely noticed when Hannah put another cup of coffee down on the table. The main difficulty was that she knew hardly any science at all. If she had a better idea of how the electricity of the light had been harnessed to power the spell, there might be another way. That was the problem with their education at Hogwarts, she mused. Second to none in a lot of ways but …

Hermione wouldn't have given up her last six years at Hogwarts for the world – but when Fleur had mentioned to her that at Beauxbatons Muggle Studies was built into the curriculum for the first four years of school, she'd almost passed out with envy. She'd also said in her usual high-handed way that children who had been to either magical or Muggle primary school were given precedence over those who had been home-educated. There was always a waiting list, because France was 'so much beeger' than Britain and Beauxbatons was the school every wizarding family wanted to get their children into. They actually had to sit an _entrance exam_ – not magic, but for reading, writing and basic number work. Hermione couldn't help feeling it was a much fairer system. If people actually had to have a brain to get into Hogwarts, they might have been spared Crabbe and Goyle. Then again, it would hardly have been fair on someone like Neville – and look how far he'd come in the last year or two. It was a puzzle, all right.

Absently, she pulled out her wand and started to Transfigure and Untransfigure the sugar crystals in the bowl into gravel, in the hope that it would inspire her. Gradually she became aware of Hannah, sitting opposite, wringing her hands and shaking them.

"Are you OK?"

"Fine, yes, don't worry. Or I will be in a minute anyway – it's just pins and needles. I get it when someone waves a wand in my direction."

"My goodness – I'm so sorry. Does it happen a lot?"

"Only for a minute or two – in magical places anyway. It's worse if I'm in the Muggle world. I couldn't do magic for months before I came to stay at Neville's. It all went wrong – I had no control over it at all. I thought it was just psycho-thingummy…"

"Psychosomatic."

"Mmm – because of Mum, you know. But I'm not so sure now. I think there's something wrong with me. Like – like a disease or an allergy or something. I used to get it at school too. But I can't tell anyone – not even Neville. I – I don't want him to think I'm a sad case – anymore than he probably does already."

"I'm sure he'd be OK about it – but isn't there anyone else you can talk to? Can't you write to one of your friends or something?"

Hannah shook her head. "I – I really miss Susan." At this, her head dropped forward again. Hermione was horrified to see a tear roll off the end of her nose and splash on the table.

"Hannah – I'm not Susan and I probably won't say any of the right things. But you can talk to me, if you'd like. I promise I won't tell a soul. Why can't you talk to Neville? Is – isn't he your … sorry, I got the impression that …"

Hannah looked up, her blue eyes brimming and her nose red and swollen. "We – we've been … yes. But I can't tell him how I feel because I'll have to leave eventually and my Mum's murderer is on my trail and I'm going to get him in terrible danger and he might die and it'll be all my fault because – because I'm Muggleborn."

Hermione sighed impatiently. If there was one thing she couldn't stand it was self-pity. "Hannah – snap out of it. I _won't_ listen if you're going to talk rubbish. If I know anything about Neville – it's that he doesn't slither out of things. Or hurt people because he hasn't thought about the consequences of his actions."

Hermione paused and remembered that she was supposed to be talking about Neville. "And we're _all_ in danger, Neville included – all the time. What makes you so special? If he likes you, he won't be worrying about himself."

"B – but how do I know if he does like me? I mean – I think he does but he hasn't _said_ anything."

Hermione couldn't hold back a smile at that one. "Oh come on, Hannah. He's a boy – what do you expect? We'll just have to work it out. Has there been – kissing?" Hannah gave a bashful smirk. Her tears were drying up, to Hermione's relief.

"Yes."

"And who kissed who?"

"Er – it was sort of mutual. I mean – I hugged him first but then – I mean, yes, it was him. He kissed me."

Hermione tried to stop another big smile from breaking out across her face. Briskly, she said, "OK – what else? How does he act around you?"

Hannah went pink. "Well, he can't – sort of – keep his hands off me when we're alone." She looked at the paper tablecloth again. "But – th-that's mutual too."

"Well, that's another good sign. Anything else?"

"Well there was one thing. He told his gran to leave us alone."

This time, the urge to grin was irresistible. "I'd say that was conclusive. I'm not even going to start on the Muggleborn thing but you'd better not let Neville hear you say anything like that – ever. What do you think we're fighting this war for, anyway?"

Hannah gave a watery smile. "You do sound a bit like Susie actually."

"The other thing is this peculiar allergy of yours. If you're worried about it, why don't you write to Madam Pomfrey?"

"That's a good idea – yes, I could do that."

"In the meantime, it strikes me that it could be _incredibly_ useful – just what we're looking for in fact."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"If you're super-sensitive to magic in the atmosphere, especially in Muggle areas – doesn't it follow that you might be able to sense the trace of that spell on the traffic light?"

"M – maybe, I suppose. But even if I can, that doesn't mean I'll be able to extract it, or show it to anyone else."

"But why do you need to? It only matters that _you_know it's definitely there and exactly where it is. Then we do a little careful vandalism and carry the evidence away in a jam jar. Leave it to the experts to verify. We wouldn't even have to ask anyone we don't trust. Mr Weasley would jump at a chance to play with a traffic-light in his lunch hour."

Hermione broke off, musing on this plan for a few moments. Overall, she felt very satisfied with the morning's outcome. She looked contemplatively at the girl across the table. Even with a red nose she was quite pretty – and she seemed sweet and not at all stupid. Yes, she decided, Hannah would do nicely for Neville. She grinned to herself, imagining how horrified Ron and Harry would be if they could hear her thoughts. Hannah was looking at her hopefully. "Hermione – you keep saying_we_. I thought you said you wouldn't have time for more than one meeting."

"Well – it's not certain I will. But I'd like to be there if I can. I think this sensitivity thing of yours is _fascinating_. I haven't got a whisker of it."

"Yes – but you've got more power in your little finger than most wizards and witches have in their whole body. I've got one of your Galleons, remember?" Hermione sighed, remembering how useless they'd been last time. She'd been so proud when she'd got them exactly right.

"Hang onto it, would you? We might need them yet. Have you passed your Apparation Test?"

Hannah's face fell again. "No. But Neville said that if he passes on Saturday he'll teach me."

"Anyway – about this traffic-light. You need someone else there to keep a look-out after what happened last weekend. We'd better go on Sunday. That'll be the last possible day I can get away anyway."

* * *

Hannah left Hermione by the lift in The Atrium and headed back to her office. Hermione inspired confidence. For the first time she began to believe that they might succeed – and that she and Neville might have a future together after the war, if they both survived. She had to let him know how she felt, just as soon as she could relax about this traffic-light business. 


	11. Son and Heir

_A huge thank you, as always, to Suburban House Elf for the beta and to everyone reading. Your reviews keep me writing, when the going gets hard. _

Chapter Eleven – Son and Heir 

Saturday morning arrived. The three of them walked in to the ward. The smell was the same as ever. Neville breathed a sigh of relief. His mother and father were decently covered up, the cords of their – thankfully – clean dressing-gowns tied. They must have been tidied up especially because it was his birthday. He squeezed Hannah's hand a little tighter, before letting go and walking up to his mum's bedside.

"Hello, Mum." He kissed her and turned towards his dad to hug him. But Dad was lying on his side facing the wall and didn't respond to Gran's gentle shake of his shoulder.

"May I sit here?" Hannah didn't wait for permission but plonked herself down on the edge of Alice's bed. Neville swallowed nervously – she'd addressed his mum directly, as though she expected a reply. Hadn't he made it clear? "I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs Longbottom." Hannah leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Neville said you wouldn't mind if he brought me to visit you."

"Ah – ah…" His mother's voice was creaky, with a note that sounded like surprise. She reached out a hand and touched Hannah's cheek, staring wonderingly. Neville found that he was clenching his jaw so tight that his head had started to ache. He forced himself to relax and sat down in the easy chair between his parents' beds. Hannah had extended her hand in turn and was pushing Alice's tangled hair back off her worn, lined face.

"You look like Neville," she said conversationally. "You should be very proud of him. He passed his Apparition Test this morning."

"H – Hannah, she can't …" he whispered urgently. Hannah turned on him with a firm expression that said quite as clearly as if she had spoken the words, _Be quiet_. However, when she spoke, her voice was gentle.

"I'd love a cup of tea. Is there a café in this place?" She raised her eyebrows meaningfully but it was Gran who responded.

"I could murder a cuppa. Come along, Neville."

* * *

When they returned ten minutes later – the corridors leading to the Janus Thickey ward were long – Neville couldn't believe his eyes. He stopped several feet away from the pair of beds. Hannah was still sitting where he'd left her, chattering away conversationally. Somehow she'd got hold of a brush and was carefully detangling the straggly hair around his mother's face. Gran, carrying two mugs of dishwater tea, walked around to the far side of his dad's bed, sat down in the other chair and unrolled her knitting. Neville continued to stand, his mouth hanging open foolishly at the sight of his mum – was it possible? Yes, she was smiling slightly. Her eyes moved incessantly over Hannah's face and she kept reaching up to pat the younger woman's hair.

"The back too? No problem. You just turn around a bit so I can get to it. There we go." Hannah shifted position on the bed, turning her head to greet Neville as she did so.

"Look – your mum's hair's dead straight and fair like mine. It's finer than mine though. You must take after your dad, hair-wise."

"Wh – where did you get that brush?"

"Oh – it was in the drawer. I think the staff must have forgotten to help her with it this morning." Neville's mother stared vacantly and ran her fingers through her hair, which was smooth and untangled for the first time he could remember. "You pointed it out to me, didn't you, Mrs Longbottom?" Suddenly, Alice's expression changed – she looked puzzled and a little scared.

"Call her Alice, girl. It's what she's used to." Augusta's needles clicked and she kept her head down to hide her expression that was wavering between anger and reluctant amusement. What was the little minx up to now? Really, as though it mattered whether or not her daughter-in-law's hair was tidy. Alice wouldn't recognise herself even if she had a mirror to look into. Besides, her hair was mousy, almost completely grey in fact, not _fair._

Augusta snorted and drained the dregs of her cup. Ugh – tea leaves. She leaned over and stroked the rough, unshaven cheek of her sleeping son. She preferred visits when he slept through them. The deep lines around his mouth relaxed and she could almost pretend that he was still twenty-five, still her strong, big-voiced bear of a man, already several steps up the Ministry ladder. As only ever happened in Frank's presence, Augusta let her guard down and allowed her thoughts to drift back to the past. The source of all her hopes – Frank was going to re-establish the name of Longbottom, put their family back on the map. He'd have been a just and capable Minister, she knew it. Prodigious talent, boundless potential – Amelia had said so, in his first review and she was no soft touch. Augusta shuddered and bent her head to her knitting again. She didn't like to think about Amelia.

Frank's eyes opened slowly and she was immediately alert. His unfocused gaze seemed to catch on hers for a second before sliding away to where light was squeezing in below the roller-blind hanging askew on the spotted and grimy window. She sighed and reached out for his cup of tea, settling his head in the crook of her arm so that he could take a few sips. She shouldn't still be nursing her first-born at her age. From time to time, during the past sixteen years, Augusta had thought about making up a lethal dose of some tasteless, painless potion, one that would ease Frank into a dreamless, endless sleep. She didn't have the nerve. She had to trust that the draughts the staff gave him kept the nightmares quiet – and pray that the flicker of consciousness she thought she sometimes detected in her son's deep-set, coal-black eyes was all in her imagination.

Hannah finished tidying Alice's hair and replaced the hairbrush in the bedside cabinet. Now, Neville sat and watched as his mum searched through the big leather handbag that she refused to be parted from. He knew what was coming – the ritualised, endlessly repeated part of every visit – and wished he'd warned Hannah in advance not to react. With an impatient motion, Alice upended the bag over the bedspread. Sweets and chewing gum rained down, mixed in with all manner of fluff and crumbs. She sifted through the rubbish, knocking handfuls onto the floor, until she found what she was looking for. Fussily, she unwrapped a piece of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. She dropped the gum back into the pile of sweets and turned the paper over in her hands. Automatically Neville reached out, but instead of handing it to him his mum held the paper back, cradling it protectively. He dropped his hand and waited. Hannah was watching quizzically – Neville thought he could feel her holding her breath. His mum held out the offering to the kind one who'd touched her hair, who took it and pocketed it without a second glance. "Thank you, Alice." The confused woman frowned slightly and looked around with an agitated expression.

Neville felt a squeezing in his chest as he saw Hannah's bewilderment. She'd reacted perfectly – what could he do? In that second, a realisation hit him with a blinding flash. Neville knew he'd do _anything_ to make everything all right again and take away Hannah's pain. She tried so hard and she'd treated his mum with respect and she put up with Gran going on at her and she was beautiful and he had to keep her _safe_, whatever happened. He put his arm around her. "Why don't you try calling her Mum? That might help."

Augusta snorted over her knitting.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?" Hannah began tentatively, a little later. She and Neville were queuing for the Floo. Augusta had gone on ahead, saying that she needed to stop off at Diagon Alley on the way home.

"'Course."

"Why are your mum and dad in a locked ward? It seems – weird. I mean, they need looking after but … other than that …well, they seem pretty harmless. Isn't it a bit, you know, old-fashioned?"

Neville frowned and tried to remember what they'd said to him, years ago, when he'd asked why they couldn't just come and live at home. _I'd look after them Granddad_ he'd implored, as they walked away from the ward one Christmas. _They could have my room_.

"It's Dad. The first year they were in there, they tried loads of treatments. But every time they took him off the potions that sedated him, he'd go berserk. He nearly killed half a dozen mediwizards and witches. In the end, they gave up."

"What about your mum?"

"She's worse if anything. H – her injuries I mean. She didn't attack anyone but she didn't respond to any of the treatments either. Granddad said it'd be cruel to separate them. The only time they tried – one year Mum came home for a visit on my birthday – she cried the entire time."

"Oh, Neville."

"It's all right. I was only two. I don't remember." Hannah squeezed his hand and changed the subject.

"So, who's coming to the party this afternoon?"

Neville shrugged. "Dunno really. Gran does the invitations. Great Uncle Algie's coming. That's why Gran had to go to the shops. We thought he was still in Peru but he got back yesterday and he – um – likes his Firewhiskey."

"You mean – you don't get to invite anyone at all – not even from school?" Hannah said with incredulity. She entertained herself with a brief diversion into a fantasy where she gave Augusta a good kick up the backside. Neville looked nonplussed.

"Never really thought about it, to be honest. I expect people are busy. Why would they want to come to my birthday?"

"Because they're your _friends_, of course. What about Hermione – you got a card from her didn't you?" Neville smiled.

"Yeah – she always remembers. But she's busy – they all are." Hannah sighed.

"It's a bit of shame, that's all," she said, trying to hide her disappointment. Neville shrugged again.

"I suppose I could've invited Luna – but I didn't think. Sorry Hannah, it's probably just going to be us, Great Uncle Algie and Great Aunt Enid and maybe a couple of Gran's friends. It'll be dead boring. I'm sorry – I know you went shopping and everything."

Hannah made a brave attempt at a reassuring smile. An afternoon with Gran and half a dozen old biddies just like her. Great. She wondered if she ought to have invested in a Shield Hat, rather than a set of new robes. "It doesn't matter. I don't like huge crowds anyway. And it'll be better for Dad." They reached the front of the line. "This is me – didn't you say you were going to Apparate home and meet me there?"

"I think so – I need the practice. Hang on a minute…" Neville pulled Hannah out of the queue just as she was about to reach into the pot of Floo powder held out by a porter.

"What do think you're doing, Neville? It'll take another ten minutes to queue up now and I've got to wash my hair and iron my robes and …"

"Shh. Close your eyes."

Hannah squeaked in surprise as Neville pulled her close and Disapparated.

* * *

She stumbled as they landed on the verandah with a noise like a small thunderclap. Neville peered at her anxiously, his arm still round her waist. "Do you feel dizzy?"

"I – I'm fine." In truth, she wasn't sure she could feel all her extremities. Nervously, she put up her hand and patted her ears. Both present and correct, thank goodness.

"I suppose that was a bit reckless," Neville said contritely.

"No! It's OK, honestly. You did really well." He smiled, looking gratified.

"I'll give you a lesson tomorrow, if you like. After we've been to – you know …"

"Great." Hannah did her best to sound enthusiastic.

"It's brilliant being of age. Shall I Apparate us upstairs?"

"Don't be daft, Neville. Look – your gran's copped us. She's looking daggers at me through the kitchen window."

"I'll go and see if she needs help with the food."

"Right – I'm off for a quick bath."

"_Another_ one?"

"How else am I supposed to wash my hair – with that stone jug on the washstand? It weighs a bloody ton."

"OK, OK!" Neville pushed open the back door. Maybe he could heat up some water without Gran noticing.

* * *

Hannah paused outside the living-room. A murmur of voices coming from inside sounded like more than a handful of people. Her dad wasn't in there yet. She could hear his shuffling tread along the first floor landing. She turned to look up as he started down the stairs and heaved a sigh of relief – his shoes were clean and he'd put on a decent shirt. "Hi, Daddy."

"Hello, my love. You look smashing. Just like your mother." A glow spread through her, warming her fingers and toes.

"Thanks. How are you today?" His expression darkened a little.

"Oh, don't you fret about me, lady. Concentrate on impressing all these magic folk. They'll all be sizing you up – checking if you're good enough for that young lad, I reckon."

"Daddy!"

"I may not be a wizard, but I'm no fool. I know why I've hardly seen you these past few weeks." His voice had taken on its familiar self-pitying whine. The glow faded and Hannah looked at the floor, gathering the top cloak of her new robes around her shoulders against the draught from the front door.

"I – I'm sorry, Dad. I've been so busy at – at work. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Her father shrugged, his mouth twisting as though he were choking back a retort. Then he visibly pulled himself together.

"I'll hold you to that. Now come on – let's face the music together."

* * *

The music was loud, blaring out of the wireless in the corner of the living-room. The room was crowded and stuffy but there was a comforting smell of pastry from the freshly-baked pies and flans gracing the polished dining-table that had been moved in from next door. Neville had been buttonholed by Great Aunt Enid the minute she arrived and was patiently explaining to her that yes, he _had_ passed his Apparition Test first time and no, he was _not_ expecting to be made Head Boy when he got back to Hogwarts in September.

"But my boy – your _father_ …" she was murmuring querulously, "_Such_ a success. I'm sure if my dear sister had a word with Minerva …We were all at school together when she was Head Girl you know. Of course, _I_was several years below the two of them in Gryffindor." Then she broke off, her mouth still open as she peered over Neville's shoulder. He turned to see what she was looking at.

He nearly dropped his pumpkin pasty. Hannah was framed in the doorway, wearing knee-length robes of a warm and dusky pink colour. Exactly the colour of the St. Swithins in bloom in the garden, he thought. And the underneath bit was quite – tight, he noticed. He swallowed an overlarge bite of pasty convulsively. As he hastened forward to greet her, he saw her dreary dad slip through the door behind her – straight into Gran's chair, he noted with annoyance. Hannah looked taller than usual. _Merlin_ – her shoes were about three inches high. Her mouth almost reached the level of his chin. He found himself wondering if anyone would notice if he Side-Along Apparated her to the greenhouse for a few minutes._Focus_, he told himself firmly as he reached her side. His Gran's words from half an hour earlier echoed in his ear.

"You're the host of this bloomin' shindig this year, my boy. And thank Merlin it's the last time I have to put up with listening to Enid quizzing me about whether or not you're going to be Gryffindor prefect, or Quidditch Captain or Gobstone President."

Neville kissed Hannah chastely on the cheek, nevertheless aware of his Great Uncle Algie giving a long wolf-whistle from his vantage point by the drinks cabinet. Blimey, he must have got stuck into the Firewhiskey even earlier than usual.

"Neville!" Hannah hissed in his ear, dragging him over to the window. "What on_earth_ is Professor McGonagall doing here? And – oh my God – that's never Madam Pomfrey?"

"I'm so sorry. It's awful. I had no idea."

"And who's that girl with the long dark hair?"

"Dunno. Uncle Arnie said something about her being here on duty. I think Mr Weasley might have asked her to come."

"Which one's Uncle Arnie?"

"Arnold Peasegood – he's not really my uncle. He's over there, getting stuck into the potted shrimps. He was Dad's best friend from school. He works at the Ministry, in the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. He hasn't been able to make it the last couple of years. That's his wife sitting next to him."

"And you're still in touch – that's nice."

"They're my godparents."

Hannah peered with curiosity at the heavily-made-up siren on the sofa. "Oh. My. God."

"Yeah – um." Neville lowered his voice. "That's why we're having to listen to this awful racket."

"Your godmother is _Celestina Warbeck_?"

"That's her stage name. You can call her Charlotte. She's all right, apart from the music. Down to earth, you know."

"Ah, Hannah, you've arrived." Augusta bustled in from the kitchen carrying the centrepiece for the table, an enormously long cake covered in pale and dark brown icing. Five of seventeen candles twinkled like stars in the night sky, forming the shape of the constellation of Cassiopeia. The remaining twelve exuded bright white wreaths of mist that swirled around the cake, giving the impression that it was surrounded by clouds. "Very nice frock, dear."

"It's a formal robe, actually," muttered Hannah. "New season."

"G – gran," Neville stammered. "You made me a broomstick cake instead of a toad or a spade one."

"That's right. I've been waiting for another opportunity to make one of these for years. As you've _finally_ seen fit to rescue Frank's Nimbus from dilapidation, I thought it was about time. I've just been telling Minerva here about your Sloth Grip Roll."

Neville and Hannah goggled, as Professor McGonagall walked graciously over to the little group by the window, smiling benignly. "Happy birthday, Neville. Hello Hannah, it's nice to see you again."

"Good afternoon, Headmistress," said Neville with, he thought, remarkable aplomb, considering he was completely freaked out by the presence of his Head of House in _his_ house. Disconcerting didn't begin to describe it. It was worse than her occasional flying visits to the Gryffindor common room in search of some miscreant.

"Who knows, we _may_ be requiring your presence on the team next year, if you've improved as much as your grandmother assures me is the case," Professor McGonagall said dryly, with a twinkle in her eye. Neville heard Hannah stifle a giggle.

"Ahem. Yes – well, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Ah! Here's our final guest now." Augusta, feeling decidedly flustered, swept off to greet a little woman climbing out of the fireplace. Somehow Minerva still managed to make her feel like an untidy and incompetent schoolgirl, decades after they'd shared a room together. Augusta pulled herself together. She was a respectable pillar of the community, with a reputation as a Herbalist and Potion maker of some renown. It was very good of Minerva to have found the time to drop in, she scolded herself, and it was quite correct that she should be sensible of the honour of entertaining the new Head of Hogwarts. Let it not be said that Augusta Longbottom had no appreciation of the niceties of rank.

A wave of tiredness washed over her. For a moment, she felt uncharacteristically overwhelmed. It had been a long day, and it wasn't over yet. What had she been thinking of, inviting such a crowd? Pretentious, that's what it was. Zelda was bound to have fun at her expense later. "Dear Pomona, welcome. You have leaves in your hair, as usual." She offered her cheek for a kiss.

There was a sudden shriek and a whirlwind in pink hurled itself between the two women. "_Professor Sprout_!" Hannah cried, flinging her arms around the dumpy witch standing on the hearth rug and nearly bowling her over. They hugged for a long time, laughing delightedly. Finally, Professor Sprout stepped back and held Hannah at arm's length.

"My darling girl. How I've missed you. Susan was no match for those tearaways in second year. Let me look at you." Professor Sprout surveyed her former prefect approvingly. Hannah sensed Neville moving towards her, then felt the warm, comforting grip of his hand in hers. Professor Sprout's unruly eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Well, well," she said, brushing a few final leaves from her battered hat into the fireplace. "Harumph. What have we here? My most talented student – and my most conscientious. Splendid. Neville, m'boy …" She cleared her throat and recited what sounded like a carefully prepared speech. "I'm absolutely delighted to be here on such an important occasion. Thank you for inviting me to share your special day."

Neville nearly blurted that it was Gran who'd invited her but remembered his manners just in time. "You're very welcome, Professor. May I get you something to drink? Butterbeer, pumpkin juice?"

"Got anything a bit stronger?" asked Professor Sprout, formality forgotten, as she bustled over to the drinks table. "Ah, Algie, my good man! Haven't seen you in yonks – how was Darkest Peru? Elf wine? Excellent."

* * *

Presents had been distributed and the broomstick cake cut. Having been introduced by Neville, Hannah was making rather nervous conversation with his godmother, who was doing most of talking. She felt a little faint. At one time she'd had three Celestina Warbecks in her Famous Wizard Card collection. "Can you believe it? This is the first time I've seen my godson since he before he went off to Hogwarts. World tours you see, darling – every summer for the past sixteen years, until this one. And look at him, all grown up. Hardly the fat little sweet barrel you used to be, are you Neville?"

"Auntie Charlotte!" Neville didn't sound like he really minded.

"So sorry, my darling. Look at me, I've no room to talk. Thank heavens for the Empire line, that's what I always say."

Out of the corner of her eye, Hannah saw a tiny figure in a long, shapeless black dress beckoning to her from the lumpy sofa that had been pushed against the back wall. A brisk, elderly and somehow familiar-sounding voice called, "Neville old chap, come over here a minute, would you? And bring your little friend, I haven't been properly introduced."

Keeping hold of her hand, Neville drew Hannah over to the oldest witch she'd seen in her life. But wait a minute – she _knew _that beaky, intelligent face. _Oh no_. Memories of her Transfiguration O.W.L. practical exam sailed to the forefront of her mind, breaking loose from where they usually remained deeply anchored in the furthest, most inaccessible reaches of her consciousness. She could see Professor McGonagall looking at her quizzically from the other side of the room. As if that weren't enough, Madam Pomfrey was seated next to Griselda Marchbanks on the sofa. Hannah felt like an exhibit pinned to a card.

"Good afternoon, Professor Marchbanks," said Neville, leaning over to kiss the softly wrinkled cheek held out to him.

"Tsk! Such formality – I've changed your nappy you know young man."

"Sorry Auntie Zelda."

"And you my dear – have we met before? Remind me, Neville."

"This is Hannah Abbott, my _girlfriend_." Hannah jumped and a strange tingly feeling washed over her. Neville gave her hand a squeeze and her knees buckled slightly. She flapped a hand in front of her face. It was _hot_ in here.

"Nice to meet you properly lass. Do you remember me?" Hannah nodded, shamefaced.

"Hello, Professor Marchbanks, Madam Pomfrey," she said politely. She was sick of this party already. What was Augusta thinking, inviting all these teachers to her grandson's seventeenth birthday? The woman must be a sadist. _Talk of the devil …_

"Hello, Poppy," said Augusta, walking over to them. Neville darted away and came back almost immediately with a kitchen chair for his grandmother to sit on. "I'm sorry I missed you when you arrived. Thank you so much for coming. Has Griselda been taking care of you?"

"Marvellously, thank you, Augusta. You know me – I can never resist an opportunity to harass a former patient. Neville – how's that scar of yours?"

"F – fine, thank you, Madam Pomfrey," he said, picking up Hannah's hand again.

"What about the bones? Any aches and pains?"

"N – not any more," murmured Neville, looking as though he wished the ground would open up and swallow him. Hannah moved a little closer and leaned comfortingly against the arm attached to the hand she was holding.

"Been getting into scrapes, eh, Neville?" interjected Professor Marchbanks. Hannah was about to leap to his defence when Augusta broke in.

"Don't you_dare_tease the boy, Zelda Marchbanks. You know perfectly well that Neville was_once again_ injured in defence of his country, fighting fully-qualified and highly-trained Dark wizards!"

So it _was_ possible for Augusta to say something nice about her grandson, thought Hannah, respectfully surprised. She couldn't understand why Neville didn't seem more pleased. He still looked pained and embarrassed and his arm had gone all tense where she was resting against it. She was on the point of dragging him away so she could ask him what was wrong when she realised that Madam Pomfrey was now addressing her. "And what about your problem, Hannah? I received your letter."

_Oh no_,_not here_. _Please shut up. _Both Neville and Augusta were staring at her in blank surprise. "I took the liberty of bringing a little something with me. You should find it does the trick." Madam Pomfrey rummaged in a black briefcase on the floor next to her and brought out a round tin that Hannah recognized instantly.

"One large spoonful, dissolved in warm water, best taken two hours before bed. It'll keep the symptoms down to a minimum." Hannah's face was burning and she could feel Neville's puzzled eyes upon her. She fixed her gaze on the tips of her lovely new shoes and tried not to cry.

"What have you got there, Poppy?" asked Professor Marchbanks. "Is it regarding this Sensitive condition we were discussing?"

"That's right, it's a simple Calming Draught. I had to administer it all too often to this one over the years, did I not?" Hannah raised her eyes and nodded gloomily. She supposed the cat was out of the bag now, so she might as well be polite. Madam Pomfrey _was_ being kind as ever, albeit in her usual forthright fashion.

"This young woman is the clearest case of Magical Sensitivity I have encountered since … well, never mind about that." She paused for a second, apparently deep in thought, then roused herself to continue. "More to the point, Hannah, I do have an answer to the question in your letter, if you are serious about following a career that will take you out into the world."

"Y – yes I think so." _I don't have much choice_.

"I must say I don't recommend it, as it will require a _particular_ strength of will with a temperament and disposition such as yours. If you are determined – you will need to learn to control the condition with your brain and senses, that is, both physically and mentally. It will not be easy but there is an excellent foundation programme at St. Mungo's you can follow. It's possible that the Ministry, as your employer, would be able to provide you with financial support. I believe it's not without precedent." She considered, head on one side. "Although, perhaps not in current circumstances."

"Th – thank you, Madam Pomfrey." Hannah took the hated Calming Draught tin and looked at it helplessly. She couldn't put it in the pocket of her robe, it would ruin the line. Perhaps she'd be able to escape upstairs for five minutes. She could do with a break from all the scrutiny. That wasn't an option right now though, it seemed.

"Do you have your wand on you, by any chance, my dear?" Professor Marchbanks was addressing her again.

"Er – um …" Of course she _did_ but what was the better answer, she wondered – the truth or flat-out denial? She settled on a slightly truculent, "Why?"

"Yes, she does, I noticed it earlier," a smiling Professor McGonagall replied, wandering over to join the group by the sofa. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Griselda?"

Madam Pomfrey was nodding indulgently. "Wonderful idea. Lay the ghost, as it were."

_Oh my lord_. Sadists – all of them.

"What's this – party tricks? Splendid." Great Uncle Algie weaved unsteadily across the carpet, followed by a worried-looking Professor Sprout.

Hannah bowed to the inevitable. "You can borrow Trevor – he won't mind," whispered Neville. "He's under the food table waiting for crumbs." Hannah turned and judged the distance between her and the toad, who was gazing at her unblinkingly, as though he knew perfectly well that he was about to be put-upon.

She pulled out her wand, murmuring "Sorry Trevor," and produced an exemplary Vanishing Spell. Her hands were dry this time. Or perhaps all the practice they'd had on Augusta's hat had helped. Although, thinking about it, it wasn't a spell she'd found particularly hard to master in lessons, which was perhaps why becoming a laughing stock for that particular incident had been so hard to bear. It was strange to think that years of exam nerves and feeling like the clumsiest witch ever born might have an explanation other than simple stupidity. Could it really be that her funny feelings would turn out to be useful, like Hermione Granger had suggested, rather than something to be embarrassed about?

"Bravo!" cried Great Uncle Algie. "Not one I ever mastered, I have to say."

"Good girl," said Professor McGonagall, with a distinct note of relief in her voice, stepping forward to reverse the spell.

"Nicely done, Hannah," nodded Professor Marchbanks. "Thank you for humouring me."

Hannah hands did shake a little as she put the wand back in the inside pocket of her robes. She could feel her dad staring at her from across the room. He appeared to have been hitting the bottle with Great Uncle Algie and his head and shoulders were wreathed in thick blue cigarette smoke. He looked very sorry for himself, and as though this mood was about to take a turn into nastiness of some kind or another. She'd have to head him off, try and get him upstairs before he showed himself up. She broke away from the congratulatory crowd that had surrounded her and went over to him, searching for words that would soothe rather than irritate.

To her surprise he stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. "I'll be off then," he said with a bright social smile, that looked almost entirely unforced.

"Right you are, Dad," she said, in an equally breezy and polite voice. "Are you going to pop upstairs for a bit? I'll bring you a cup of tea if you like."

He stepped forward and whispered in her ear. "I mean it, I'm off – for good, like. I can't take it love. I have to get out of here. This isn't my world. I'll not take you away from your friends but I'll take my chances."

"Wh – what do you mean? You're not – leaving?"

"My bag's packed. There's a train to York in half an hour."

"You _planned_ this." He said nothing. "Where are you going?" Her dad shrugged. "Not home – Dad, you _can't_."

"Can if I want," he said, sounding for all the world like a truculent small boy.

"Just wait another hour or so," Hannah pleaded desperately. "We can talk."

"Nothing to talk about. I should have done this months ago. Sent you back to school like I wanted." Hannah gasped. The unfairness of it. Talk about a selective memory. She nearly lost her temper but forced herself to keep her voice even.

"I couldn't go back – you were _ill_. You couldn't go down the shops for a pint of milk." Her dad shrugged moodily.

"That was then. You've got your own life now. I need mine back. I need to start looking into what happened to your Mum again. It's not like you're ever going to do it. Wouldn't be surprised if you were in cahoots with the rest of them – up to your neck in it."

Hannah gaped in disbelief, then clamped her mouth firmly shut. Neville came over to join them, looking searchingly at her face for clues. She kept her eyes down and her lips pressed together. She couldn't make a scene at Neville's birthday party, or let her dad spoil things. Typical selfish, self-centred behaviour. How on earth her mum had put up with his nonsense for so many years was beyond her. _Bloody drama queen_,_I could swing for him_, she thought rebelliously. She'd known it had only been a matter of time but what a time to choose. "Um – can I get either of you another drink?" asked Neville timidly.

"No thank you, young man. I'm just going."

"Going?" Neville looked blank.

"He's not going anywhere," muttered Hannah through gritted teeth.

"Thanks for inviting me but I have to be off now. I'll be seeing you, Hannah." He walked – a touch unsteadily – through the door that lead into the hall and picked up a small case half-hidden behind the umbrella stand. Hannah hadn't noticed it when they'd come in. "I've left a note for the lad's granny." He leaned over and kissed her cheek, breathing Firewhiskey and tobacco fumes. Hannah grabbed him by the arm, resisting an urge to throw her arms round his neck like a five year old. "Daddy, please! Don't do this." _Don't leave me too_.

"You'll be fine now love. Trust me. Take care of her, lad." Mr Abbott detached his daughter's hand and stepped out into the early evening chill, looking noble and self-sacrificing. Hannah went to run after him but felt a touch on her arm. The strange young woman with the long, dark hair was standing behind her.

"Should we stop him, do you think?" Arnold Peasegood had come into the hall to join them and peered after Mr Abbott walking down the drive, as dusk enveloped him. As her dad left through the front gate, now secure on its hinges, Hannah noticed his shoulders squaring and how he looked somehow taller before he disappeared for good.

"No, we can't hold him," the girl replied. "The house is cordoned off anyway. I'll send a message to the Ministry, let them know I'll be intercepting him there, try and make him see sense." She turned to Hannah. "He'll be back with you before tomorrow morning." Hannah stared at her wildly. Who on earth was this woman, who looked hardly older than herself but was clearly in a position of authority?

"Seems as though you and your Dad have attracted the attention of someone or something quite unpleasant. That was a nasty trap they'd set in your old place."

"I'm – I'm sorry – who are you?"

The girl gave her a wry grin. "I'm afraid that information is given out on a strictly 'need to know' basis." She turned to Neville's godfather. "I'd best be off then – now we've got a security breach on our hands … think you can manage here?"

"Not sure. Depends if Great Uncle Algie asks the wife for an impromptu performance. Things could get out of hand quite quickly." He grinned. "It was good to meet you – give the others my best."

"The others?" The woman arched one eyebrow questioningly.

"Just Kingsley then." Arnold tapped the side of his nose and winked. The girl shied like a startled animal, gave a final nervous grin and Disapparated almost silently.

Hannah stumbled back into the living room. Not looking where she was going, she tripped on the hole in the threadbare carpet and would have fallen, had Neville not been there to catch her. He felt her shaking, with a deep trembling that seemed to reverberate through her whole body, as she hid her face against the stiff white cotton of his best shirt. He could feel heat coming off her and the dampness of her tears as he patted her shoulder nervously, becoming steadily more aware of the painful silence that had fallen in the room. He glanced at his grandmother. The lamps were not yet lit and her expression was unreadable in the gloom of early evening, as the sun set behind the trees in front of the house.

Great Aunt Enid was the first to break the silence. "Where did that man go? What was a Muggle doing here anyway, Augusta? You still haven't explained." Neville felt Hannah's shoulders stiffen. She drew away from him and turned round slowly.

"_That man_ was my dad," she said, in a calm enough voice, although Neville could see that her hands were still shaking. She clasped them in front of her and faced Great Aunt Enid with a tranquil expression, belied by the quilting of her jawline.

"Well, in that case I _am_sorry, dear. I had no idea."

"Why should you be sorry? My mother was a Muggle too. Until she died."

"Oh! The poor little thing."

Hannah gave Neville an agonized look, whispered, "I'm so sorry," and fled the room. He heard her footsteps climbing the stairs, unevenly owing to her unaccustomed high-heels. For a moment he stared around at the assembled guests, torn between going after her and his duties as host. Most people were looking vaguely uncomfortable, staring at the floor or pretending to eat and drink. He was still stupefied by indecision, when Great Aunt Enid spoke again.

"Terribly sad, of course but a little decorum wouldn't go amiss. Still, what can one expect, really?"

Professors McGonagall and Sprout exchanged horrified looks. Griselda Marchbanks glared from Great Aunt Enid to Gran and back again, as though urging her friend to say something. Neville looked at Gran, who met his eye unflinchingly. She didn't – she _couldn't_ – agree with what Great Aunt Enid had said. Could she? Neville looked away. He felt really hot for some reason and his hands seemed overlarge and clumsy. He folded his arms to get them out of the way. "Erm – I'm sorry Auntie Enid, I'm not sure I understand what you mean?"

"Come now, Neville dear." Her large eyes were mild and unblinking. "A pretty little thing, but not quite our sort, wouldn't you agree Algernon?" She gave her tinkling laugh and sought support from her wayward husband, nodding over his plate of chicken and Waldorf salad.

"Hmph, capital fellow I thought – held his drink better than some wizards I could mention. Still, you're right m'dear – eh, Neville? Plenty of fillies for a well set-up young fellow like you – and a Longbottom no less. No need to settle for a – hmm yes, well …" He went back to mumbling over his drumstick.

"Quite," continued Aunt Enid. "I seem to recall there were a good number of girls born in the same year as you. Bones, Parkinson, Patil – twins I believe – to name but a few. All good wizarding stock." _Stock?_ Neville felt queasy and quite out of his depth. Aunt Enid went on as though she hadn't said anything at all untoward. "Do you remember, Augusta, we talked about it with Alice, when we visited her in St. Mungo's after the birth?"

"I remember that conversation," interjected Griselda Marchbanks crisply. "I remember Alice laughing and telling you to not to be so daft."

Neville was becoming steadily hotter. He was glad his hands were clamped under his armpits, because he could feel himself trembling as badly as Hannah had been before her escape. "Th – that's enough," he began shakily. "Y – you can't run my life anymore. I'm seventeen. Who I'm f – friends with is none of your business."

"Well, really!"

"And – and don't mention my mum to me either. You've never once been to see her in all these years."

"Sister! Are you going to allow him to speak to me like this?"

Augusta was smiling strangely. "Neville's right actually Enid. He is of age."

"Flagrant disrespect!"

"Oh, don't give me that flannel. You've always been a meddlesome old busybody, Enid." Gran passed her hand across her forehead in a dismissive gesture. "He's right about another thing too. You're hypocritical and a snob. You never took to Alice. If I hadn't listened to you lot back then, I'd have had more time with my Frank."

Neville could see the corners of Professor McGonagall's mouth twitching. Uncle Arnold, however, was frowning heavily. His wife had averted her eyes from the scene and begun stacking cleared plates on the sideboard. She looked a little sick. Griselda Marchbanks had Trevor on her lap. She was feeding him a sausage on a stick and stroking his back thoughtfully.

Great Aunt Enid's face was tinged with two spots of colour high on her sharp cheekbones but when she spoke, her voice was cold. "Augusta, you're overwrought. I'll put this down to the pressure you've been under. But mark my words, if you don't want repeat of last time …"

"Last time?" interrupted Augusta, equally coldly.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Your Frank was living over the brush goodness knows where, with that trollop." Neville hadn't heard the word before but he didn't like the sound of it. He was still trying to catch up with the fact that Gran had somehow leapt to his and Hannah's defence. "She caught Frank good and proper, everybody knew it." _Caught him?_ thought Neville, bewildered. What did _that_ mean?

"Put your foot down with the boy, while there's still time. Or that little blonde piece will have her feet under your table before you can say Jack Robinson." Neville still wasn't quite sure what Aunt Enid was implying but the insult intended towards his mum and Hannah was clear enough. The anger flowing through his veins made him feel powerful, despite his shaking hands. He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, his grandmother spoke again in her most forbidding tone.

"Thank you for the advice Enid, but I think it's time you and Algie were going. He's had more than enough. Go on – be off with you." Augusta had her wand out and was pointing it directly at the fireplace.

"I have never … not in all my born days …" Great Aunt Enid was still stuttering with rage when Arnold and Augusta manhandled Great Uncle Algie into the fireplace with her and threw a handful of Floo powder at them.

Neville sighed in relief and gratitude and felt a rush of love towards his grandmother. He made a decision. "Excuse me, everyone. I have to go. Thank you all for coming. Sorry, Gran. I'll come back and help clear up later."

Gran looked as though she wanted to stop him but Neville found himself surrounded. Professor Sprout enveloped him in a bear hug. "She's a good girl, Neville. Don't you listen to any of their nonsense."

"I won't," he whispered back, scarlet in the face at being clasped to the bosom of his favourite teacher and role model.

"Look after yourself, Longbottom." Professor McGonagall gripped him by the hand. "I'll see you on the first of September."

"Keep taking good care of that scar," said Madam Pomfrey, raking him over with a gimlet eye. Neville edged away before she could ask him for one last look.

"_Bon soir_, darling boy." It was his godmother's turn to sweep him into a sweetly-scented embrace. "You've grown so handsome, I hardly recognise you. And your _petit chou-fleur_ is lovely."

"I didn't know you could speak French, Auntie Charlotte," grinned Neville. "Thanks for the album – and for the new edition of _1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi_."

"We guessed you were about due for another copy," Uncle Arnie joined in, clapping him on the back. "It's been three years after all."

"And the silver knife is brilliant."

"We hope you like the message on it," said his godmother, kissing him again on both cheeks.

"It's great," said Neville, looking again at the engraving which read, "To Neville, on his coming of age, from your ever-loving godparents."

"Off you go lad," grunted Griselda Marchbanks in her gruff voice. "We'll see ourselves out."

"Thanks Auntie Zelda," said Neville, kissing her politely and backing out of the living-room before anyone else could waylay him. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for moment, taking deep breaths of the cooler, slightly musty air of the hall. A small sound caught his ear. He looked up to see Hannah sitting on the top step of the first flight of stairs. She smiled at him.

"I heard what you said. That was brave, standing up to your relatives like that."

Neville bounded up the stairs and sat down beside her. "I'm so sorry. Are_you_ all right?"

"'Course I am. I've heard worse." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "A_friend_ am I?" Her voice had regained a little of its usual mischief. Neville shifted uncomfortably. "And anyway, what's all this about you and Pansy Parkinson?"

"Oh, come off it."

"I'm sorry – is it Parvati Patil? I hate to break it to you, but Susan doesn't fancy you."

"Give it a rest, Hannah. I'm not interested those girls."

"You'd better not be."

"I can show you _how_ not interested if you like …" Neville stood up and pulled Hannah to her feet.

* * *

"Watch it Neville, my dress is going to get all creased."

"I thought these were _robes_."

"That would be the whole ensemble. You'll notice the top part is already lying in a heap on the floor."

"Whatever," he said, finding a row of tiny buttons down the back and beginning to painstakingly undo them. "What's this underneath?"

"Um – it's the undershift. Silk. You approve?" Neville mumbled something inarticulate as they stumbled in the direction of the bed. Tomorrow they had to try and break a traffic light without getting caught by the Muggle Please-men but after that …

There was something connected with his birthday Neville hadn't yet told Hannah about. He hoped she'd be pleased.

_This chapter is dedicated to Charlotte Songbird, who is so Awesomely good-natured that she still reads this, even though the story breaks up not one, but two of her OTPs. Anyone interested in knowing more about Arnold Peasegood and Celestina Warbeck can find the story of how they met here._


	12. The Last Test and Proof

Chapter Twelve – The Last Test and Proof 

"I have to go." The house was quiet, the party guests having long since departed. Moonlight bathed the untidy floor of Neville's bedroom. "Your grandmother …"

He kissed her again, silencing her. His hands moved slowly over her back, smoothing the thin silk of her shift and his arms tightened, pulling her against him. "Hannah." His voice was a whisper. "Hannah – can't we?"

She could just stay. Stay here and drown. She opened her eyes, taking one last inhalation of the warm skin of his shoulder and moved her head to one side to avoid the next kiss. She arched her body away, not easy to do on the uncomfortably narrow single bed. With determination, she reached round and took his hand away from the curve of her waist. She held the hand up to her mouth and kissed it, to soften what she had to say. "Really, I have to go."

Neville snatched his hand back, as though she had burned him. "I – I'm sorry," he said in a strangled voice. He rolled away from her and sat up on the edge of the bed. Hannah sat up too, tense and shivering now, away from the shelter of their body warmth.

"It's not because – because I don't want to."

Neville said nothing. Hannah's eyes went to the nape of his neck, where his messy hair finished in a point, and then let them travel down the curve of his spine, following the line of vertebrae as it went into shadow between his shoulder blades and then reappeared, only to disappear again into the hollow where his black trousers began. She could jump him right then and there.

"I – I promised Augusta."

Neville turned his head. His hands were hanging helplessly at his sides and he looked almost angry. "Wh – what do you mean? Promised her _what_?"

"We had an – um – bit of a talk the other day."

Neville stared, the expression on his face now one of horror.

"She knows – about the other night, when I stayed here. I'm sorry, Neville. I would have said something but I was – embarrassed. And it's not as though we've talked about, you know … and we should, I think before …"

"What did you promise her?" He was still looking at her intently, but he didn't seem angry anymore.

"J – just that we wouldn't sleep in the same bed, while I was a guest here."

Neville smiled and brought his arms up to surround her. He kissed her again and stood, bringing her with him. He picked up her dress from where it was lying draped over one of the more innocuous-looking plants and handed it to her.

"Well, that's all right then."

* * *

Breakfast the morning after his birthday party was a silent affair. Gran looked tired and snapped at him when he spilt sugar on the tablecloth. He'd bumped into Hannah at the bottom of the stairs. Although she'd smiled, she hadn't stopped for the hug he had waiting, just pushed open the door to the dining-room and slipped silently into her seat opposite the conspicuously empty chair normally occupied by her dad. There were bluish shadows under her eyes, he noticed, and she seemed preoccupied, toying with her food in a way guaranteed to annoy his grandmother. However, when Neville asked if she was OK, she merely gave a stiff smile and said, "Fine, thanks."

His grandmother had got up to clear the plates away when a large brown owl swooped in through the open window and deposited an envelope in front of Hannah's plate. The Ministry seal stood out clear and black against the white tablecloth. Fearing the worst, Neville watched her tear the envelope open hastily and read the few words printed on the single sheet of parchment inside. Just as she had on that first morning a few short weeks before, she held it out to him wordlessly. _Stay where you are, _it read. _An operative will be with you first thing in the morning._

With Hannah's – again, unspoken – permission, he passed it to his grandmother, who took one look and snorted. "Hmph. No information about the manner of their arrival I note. Neville, go and check the fireplace is clear please. Last time I looked it was still full to the brim with wrapping paper."

"Sorry Gran," said Neville automatically and wandered next door to the living-room where he took great pleasure in setting the balls of paper alight with his wand. He'd been using magic at home for years but it gave him a thrill of excitement to think it was now legal. As the last one burned and crumpled slowly into white ash, the sound of spinning alerted him to the arrival of the 'operative'. A slight figure in dark robes took a step towards him but managed to catch her foot on the grate, landing gracelessly in a heap on the hearth.

"Damn." The Ministry witch frowned, shaking off Neville's offered hand and leaping to her feet with rather more agility than her tumble had suggested. "Bit shattered, been on duty all night, you know?" The face was familiar but Neville couldn't for the moment remember where he'd seen the young woman before. Tired shadows under her eyes contrasted with the shocking brightness of her pink hair.

Alerted by the sound of the crash, Hannah and his gran entered the living-room together. "Good morning." Gran gave the visitor the benefit of her frostiest glare. Not noticeably disconcerted, the girl brushed ashy paper from her robes.

"Sorry about the unsociable hour, Mrs Longbottom. But I thought Miss Abbott ought to hear straight away."

"Hear what?" Neville could hear the fearful catch in Hannah's breathing. "I know your voice. Who are you?"

"The name's Tonks. I'm from the Auror Office." With a jolt, Neville remembered the two locations where he'd seen the witch before. Most recently, she'd been duelling with an enormous blond wizard right in front of him, just before one of the Death Eater's curses had glanced off him on its way towards shattering a window. He remembered nothing after that.

"Tonks – Tonks what?" asked Gran, whose voice, he noticed, hadn't defrosted one iota.

"_Auror _Tonks, if you prefer," responded the girl, with equal asperity. "My information is for Hannah." She turned towards the younger woman. "Do you want to go somewhere more private?"

"It's fine," replied Hannah. "I – I want them both to stay. It's about Dad isn't it?"

"Afraid so. He didn't arrive at your house last night. Never turned up. Not that he'd have been able to get in – it's protected by at least a dozen spells at the moment until that potion's cleared away. It's taking a while."

"What _potion_?" demanded Augusta. No one paid any attention.

"That's where I know your voice from," said Hannah wonderingly. "You were at the party yesterday. B – but how … ?"

"Yeah, I was – er – in disguise. When I left, the plan was to give your dad time to cool down and, um, sober up. Then I was going to have a quiet chat with him, bring him back here. He was seen getting off the train in York. But he never made his connection."

Hannah sat down with a thump on the threadbare sofa, as though her legs wouldn't support her. Zophy ran in the open door and jumped on her lap, butting her mistress playfully in the stomach until Hannah began to scratch behind her ears automatically. "Are you going to look for him?" she asked in a dull voice.

"I'm afraid not," Tonks said gently. "We'll keep an alert out but we don't have the manpower for an active search – not just for one person."

Hannah shrugged. Neville could guess what she was thinking. She was wrong – it wouldn't be any different if Hannah's dad were a wizard, not with new disappearances being reported nearly every day. Tonks went on. "The Ministry won't put it down as an attack, not without evidence. I've filed a Missing Persons Report."

"Ridiculous." To Neville's astonishment, his grandmother sat down on the sofa next to Hannah and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "So much for this so-called Evacuation Scheme what-have-you," she muttered. "What about the reason I was asked to shelter the man in the first place? Typical foolish short-sightedness." It wasn't clear whether she was directing these remarks at the Ministry or Hannah herself, who was staring blindly at the floor. Zophy gave up on her and moved across to his grandmother's lap.

The Auror dug her fingers into her shock of pink hair, screwing her face up and then opening her eyes very wide as though struggling not to yawn. She gave an apologetic smile that included Neville and his gran but continued to direct her words at Hannah. "I'm so sorry. I've done what I can. I only came here yesterday 'cos Arthur Weasley asked if I'd come along and keep an eye out for gatecrashers. My hands are tied. My boss gave me a right rollicking this morning when I told him what I'd been doing. I was supposed to be on leave yesterday – been on night shift for a fortnight."

Hannah looked up. "Thank you," she said, in a colourless voice that made Neville's heart sink. It wasn't _fair_ that she should have to deal with all this. He wished there was something he could do to help, to _protect_ her. However, as he listened, Hannah's voice strengthened. "I appreciate everything you've done, T – Tonks, I really do." To his amazement she even managed a small smile of gratitude. "You shouldn't have wasted a whole day on this when you've got more important things to be doing. We've got somewhere to be ourselves Neville, haven't we?"

_Uh – oh_. Gran was looking affronted again. "It's the first I've heard of it. It's Sunday for heaven's sake. Neville – ?"

"I – I was about to tell you at breakfast …"

"I need you here today, Neville, you know that. There are things to sort out, paperwork …"

Hannah interrupted. "I'm sorry, Augusta – I can explain." Neville stared. He could feel his mouth hanging open and he shut it abruptly. Hannah gave him a brief look in return, before continuing. "We have to go back to where my mum's car crashed. We need to find out if it was an accident, or – something else. Neville's friend Hermione Granger is meeting us there in half an hour to help us."

Gran was still stroking the kitten but her cheeks were worryingly tinged with purple. _Damn_. What on _earth _had made Hannah think it was a good idea to tell her the truth? He'd been planning to spin the entirely plausible line that Trevor had done another runner. They were never going to get out of the house in time to meet Hermione now.

Hannah stood and went over to him. She took his hand and looked up at him with serious eyes. "We have to tell people what we're doing. It's irresponsible not to – what if something happens to us?" She was right. Of course she was. How could he be so stupid – he wanted to look after her, protect her – and he was stupidly planning to drag them both into worse danger.

Ignoring Augusta's look of stupefaction, the Auror broke in. "Er – sorry, have I got this? You're going back to your home town – today – with Hermione?"

"Just for a bit. We'll be back by mid-morning." Neville felt suddenly sick with fear at the risk they were taking.

"Neville – have you gone quite mad?" His grandmother had found her voice.

"We have to, Gran. We have to try – it's the only way we're going to find out what happened. It might be our only chance of saving Hannah's dad. And – and we know someone's after them. We – we went to her house, last week and there was a trap."

It was a relief to be honest with her at last. He hadn't liked having secrets from Gran. He went on, feeling braver. "No one else is going to do it for us – why should they? There's a war on. This is something we can do ourselves."

"I expressly forbid it." His grandmother got up stiffly from the sofa, depositing Zophy onto the floor with a mewl of protest.

Neville went over to where she was standing, helplessly smoothing her hair back from her forehead with trembling fingers. "Gran, please." He touched her shoulder. "I promise – we'll be back before you know it. We can sort th – the other thing out tonight."

He felt wretched. Why was it everything he was involved in these days seemed to end up causing pain to someone he cared about? Even his party – which for once he'd almost looked forward to – had ended up in humiliation and heartbreak for the girl he'd selfishly wanted to show off to everyone. And then afterwards he hadn't even thought about what she must be going through – he'd just been out for what he could get. No wonder Hannah hadn't wanted to talk to him or let him touch her this morning.

* * *

Augusta stared into her grandson's round brown eyes and realised for the first time that they were on a level with her own. She fought the temptation to grasp his shoulders and shake some sense into him. Not that it would do any good, she suspected. Where had this streak of insubordination emerged from? She couldn't even blame the girl, she realised, thinking back to a similar conversation she'd had with Neville a few short weeks ago, a full day before he'd brought the waif and stray home with him. On second thoughts, perhaps she_could _be blamed.

There again, she reflected, no point wrapping Neville up in cotton wool. At least he showed a sense of responsibility and proper Gryffindor pride. There was hope for him after all. Augusta checked and scolded herself. Old habits died hard. When would she start remembering that her grandson had twice proved himself in battle and survived? "Take a jacket, both of you. There's a nip in the air." She sniffed. "Can I offer you a cup of tea before you set off, Miss Tonks?"

"No ta, Mrs Longbottom, I'm going with these two – check the coast is clear for them. Least I can do."

* * *

The country lane that led up to the junction with the main road appeared deserted when Hannah and Tonks Apparated into a small copse of willow trees nearby. Hannah found the Side-Along experience far less uncomfortable than she had the day before. She found she didn't really mind the strange constriction which accompanied the exhilarating sensation of travelling a vast distance instantaneously – it was quite a rush in fact, when done properly. As she caught her breath she heard a loud crack and Neville appeared on his hands and knees, slap bang in the middle of the road. He looked round wildly, spotted Hannah's frantic signals and made a dash for the cover of the trees.

"Right, you two wait here," said Tonks brusquely. "_Don't_move until I get back. Hold my cloak."

Hannah and Neville watched in amazement as the Auror's hair lengthened and bleached-blonde streaks appeared in it. She was wearing t-shirt and jeans under her robes. A blue-eyed, toothy Muggle teenager swaggered into the open, the effect only slightly ruined when Tonks stuck her foot ankle-deep into a puddle. They gazed after her, in awe.

"She's a – thingummy … what's it …"

"Metamorphmagus. Wow." Hannah leaned against a tree trunk and gazed after the witch who had so unaccountably taken it upon herself to help them, as she disappeared around the final bend in the lane before the traffic lights.

Neville was looking at her anxiously. "Are – are you all right?"

She gave a gusty sigh, glad to be alone with him for a bit. Hermione wouldn't be arriving for another ten minutes or so. How much could she tell him? After what she'd heard yesterday sitting on the stairs, she thought she could trust him. It wasn't fair to let him go on thinking the worst. "I'm not sure. You don't know my dad. This could just be one of his games."

"Games?"

"You saw what he was like yesterday. He's always been the same, even before ..." The words wouldn't come out. It wasn't Dad's fault and besides, it was too humiliating to admit that he had – problems.

"Before your mum died?" Neville's voice was matter-of-fact. Hannah took a deep breath and reminded herself that she owed him an explanation, that he could handle it and Neville wasn't about to take fright and disappear on her. She could rely on him.

"Mum knew how to handle him – calm him down, when he got funny ideas, like – like people were against him, that they weren't to be trusted. I thought we were getting closer this past year. When we came to stay with you, I thought he was getting better."

It was all her fault. She'd been so caught up in the joy of her new life, with a job and a purpose and a _boyfriend_ that she hadn't bothered to keep a check on what was happening with her dad. She hadn't even told him about the things she'd found out. She'd made the excuse to herself that she didn't want to get his hopes up until she had something positive to tell him but now – Hannah faced the truth. She knew that it was really because she couldn't face the endless questions, the hours of going round and round in a circle trying to make him understand something that didn't make sense in any terms she could explain it to him. Tears of frustration pricked her eyeballs.

"These past few weeks – I neglected him. And now he's gone and I don't know whether he's been killed or he's just propping up a bar somewhere feeling sorry for himself." Her voice was thick with a mixture of guilt and anger. "That's why he ran off, to punish me." Hannah stopped studying the leaf mould on the ground in front of her and looked up fearfully to gauge Neville's reaction.

He wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to say something soothing, reassuring but the overwhelming emotion he could identify was annoyance. "It's not your fault h – he's … " Neville bit back the words '_a selfish git'_. "I dunno. He always seemed really moody." To his surprise, Hannah laughed ruefully.

"You noticed? I hope he wasn't rude." She said it with resignation, as though she knew the answer, whatever the response might be.

"Of course not." _Not to me, anyway_. It wasn't a big lie, and he hoped Mr Abbott would be all right, but Neville wasn't sorry that Gran would be getting her chair back.

Hannah was kicking at the trunk of a nearby fallen tree in a distracted fashion. Neville wanted to warn her to be careful not to stub her toe in her thin-soled sandals, but he kept his peace, sensing that she had more to say. "Even Mum never stood up to him properly," she mumbled. "She was always trying to calm him down and make sure his moods didn't get out of hand, 'cause you know, you couldn't tell him."

Neville said nothing, just did his best to keep his face composed into what he hoped was a listening sort of expression. Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. "It'd be the end of the world if I said or did something and made him worse. Whenever he was indoors you had to tiptoe round on eggshells …"

It explained a few things. Like why she was so good at concentrating on all that Muggle stuff. Why she always seemed to have half a mind on whatever else was going on around her, picking up and worrying about what other people wanted. He remembered all the occasions she'd reminded him, when they were in the greenhouse and he'd completely lost track of time, that they'd better stop and go back inside. _Augusta will be wondering where we've got to …_

But maybe it also explained the way things seemed to take so much out of her. She just needed to relax, he decided. He wondered if he could make her understand. "Is that why … ?"

"I'm a nervous wreck? Probably." She gave a short laugh. He might have known she'd already be two steps ahead him.

"I wasn't going to say that! Not – not exactly. You're – you're amazing, Hannah. The way you were with Mum yesterday. She liked you. I really think she noticed you. She never notices anyone usually."

Hannah stopped kicking the tree trunk and turned round. She was smiling, thank goodness, and rolling her eyes in that way she had when he was being – what did she call it – _self-deprecating_. "She notices _you_, Neville."

They weren't talking about him. He wanted to broach the subject that had been troubling him since she'd been given the Calming Draught at the party and had looked so unhappy about it – this weird 'condition' she had. _Sensitive_ – Neville didn't think Hannah understood it any better than he did and he had a feeling it was important she got her head around it. He thought of asking her if it might be psycho-thingummy, that word Auntie Zelda always came out with when Gran was moaning about his grades, but it didn't seem like the right moment. He remembered what Gran had said to him about Hannah, that first evening. Highly-strung. Maybe he didn't need to.

"I dunno, you're good with people is all I meant." It wasn't, exactly but he couldn't think of a way to put it that didn't sound mean – after all, Hannah's dad was all she had left. Not for the first time, Neville thought how lucky he was that he had Gran, and that even though he wasn't as good as his dad, she looked after him anyway. Maybe one day he'd be able to repay her for everything she'd done for him.

Hannah seemed embarrassed by the compliment. "Well, it's one thing about living with Dad – he's unpredictable." There she went again, reading his mind.

Neville grinned. "Not like Gran."

"That's true – you always know where you are with your gran." They looked at one other and burst out laughing.

Neville was about to give Hannah the good-morning kiss she'd denied him earlier, when Hermione walked out from behind the tree they were leaning against. She smiled shyly. "Not interrupting anything, am I?" Hannah jumped in his arms and gave a shout of fright.

For a second, Neville felt as though he could jinx Hermione into the middle of next week.

"Good grief, Hermione, where did you spring from?" Hannah, on the other hand, appeared delighted to have been caught practically mid-snog and that – _did_ something to him. He decided to make the best of it. It was _good_ to see Hermione.

"I've been practising near-silent Apparition. I'm getting there, I think. I take it _you_ passed then?"

"First time," he said proudly. He still couldn't quite credit it, having been sure he'd messed up the theory test. The examiner must have been having an off-day.

"Wow – that's fantastic. Ron will be _furious_."

Hermione stepped forward determinedly and gave him a brief and embarrassed hug. She'd never done that before. In fascination, Neville checked the experience against his recently improved knowledge of the female anatomy. Hermione's body felt both soft and firm, not unlike Hannah's and her – chest – was just as springy against his. She smelt nice too, of soap and clean skin, but that was all. Pleasant, if slightly awkward ... nope, nothing else. It was quite a relief. He'd been pretty sure he hadn't fancied her since fourth year, but it was good to have it confirmed.

"Good heavens," she said, releasing him and frowning slightly. "You're – um – thinner, Neville. Are you all right? Hannah said you were better."

_No. Not going there, Hermione_. He knew that if he let her, she'd worm it all out him in ten seconds flat. He ducked his head so that the two girls couldn't see the suddenly miserable expression on his face. He didn't want to be probed about the events of last term – that's why he'd asked Madam Pomfrey to pretend he was having his bandages changed or some other excuse whenever Hermione had come up to the hospital wing to visit him. After the funeral, his injuries had meant he'd had to Floo home instead of going with everyone else on the Hogwarts Express and he hadn't been at all sorry.

The dreams – waking up morning after morning to the same feeling of searing humiliation had only recently started to fade. Not wanting to talk about it was also why he'd said little to Hannah, since the day on the Hill when she'd asked to see his scar. She'd asked a couple of times; trying, in her gentle, non-invasive way, to get him to open up. He'd given her the bare facts because he didn't want to hurt her feelings, but he hadn't encouraged questions and he wasn't going to now.

"I'm all right," he said in a low voice. "Just – just didn't have much of an appetite for a few weeks." He forced a smile. "How's everyone – Harry, Ron – what about Ginny?"

Hermione's worried frown didn't completely disappear but she didn't pester him. Instead, she rolled her eyes. "Don't ask. She's _says_ she's fine. I left Ron and Harry fast asleep – I could hear them snoring the whole way downstairs. They've got_their_ Apparition tests today. I have to be back by ten at the latest, or someone will notice I've gone. Shouldn't we get going?"

"Just a mo' – we're waiting for someone." The Muggle teenager slouched into view. "Here she is now."

"Erm – hello," said Hermione, looking nonplussed. The girl's hair began to shrink back to its former length, brassy chunks of blonde melting into mouse and then brightening to pink again. Hermione's expression relaxed. "Tonks. What are you doing here?"

"Hi, Hermione. Just helping out. Thought I'd come and make sure the place is secure before you lot start whatever conspicuous thing it is you're doing. Which I _don't _want to know about, not today anyway. I need my bed."

"I thought you had the weekend off?"

"Yeah, well – you know how it is. I've checked, there's no one around. It's a bit early for Muggles and, with any luck, for enemies as well. Do what you have to do and get out of here."

"Thanks, T – Tonks," said Hannah. "Thank you so much – for everything."

"Don't worry about it." She gave a massive yawn. "Here, one of you take this." She held out a small red and silver object.

"What does it do?" asked Neville, intercepting the item before Hermione could take it.

"It's the Swiss Army knife my dad gave me when I graduated from the programme. Belonged to him as a boy and his dad before that, so don't bloody lose it. It's got some modifications." She flipped open a small blunt-looking knife blade. "It'll cut through most things without having to get a wand out. I have a feeling you might need it."

"Brilliant, thank you!" He hefted the knife to feel its weight and tested the blade with his thumb. His new silver knife was a lot sharper. He tore a tough strand of ivy away from the nearest tree trunk and began to saw at it. The knotted, fibrous stem parted effortlessly.

"The rest of the time, keep it in your pocket – if anyone tries to sneak up on you, it'll start vibrating."

"Er, Tonks – " began Hermione. She sounded embarrassed. "You won't tell anyone you've seen me, will you? I left a note, just in case but I thought it best to keep it quiet – you know how they fuss."

Tonks gave her a direct, appraising look. "Won't have a chance. I'm going straight home to sleep like the dead – 'til tomorrow morning with any luck. Make sure you get home OK, or I'll kill you myself."

The Auror gave a final, vast yawn and Disapparated as quietly as she had the day before at the party, with only the faintest whisper of a pop. Hermione stared enviously into empty air for a moment after she'd gone, as though somehow it would offer up the secret.

"Neville, you're shaking," said Hannah suddenly, looking searchingly at his hands, as he continued to play with Tonks' knife.

"I'm not," he answered, as shortly as he'd ever spoken to her, heading out of the cover of the trees onto the tarmac of the narrow country road. Hermione looked after him in surprise.

"What's up with Neville?" she said quietly to Hannah as they followed a few paces behind.

"I've no idea," Hannah whispered back.

Neville heard the whispers and felt the back of his neck get very warm, contrasting unpleasantly with the cold trickle of fear down his back. He ignored them. What could he say? That he was scared because yet again he'd ended up in a dangerous situation, responsible for his own and others' safety, and the Auror's cool competence had only reminded him how badly-equipped he was to handle it?

* * *

They moved tentatively down the country lane towards the junction in a tight group, looking around nervously. Neville wasn't the only one feeling exposed. Hannah couldn't help but think about the devastation at her house, just a few streets away. Hermione appeared relaxed, but the outline of her wand could be seen clearly through the fabric of her light cardigan. Her hand was thrust deep in the pocket, balled into a fist around it.

"What now?" she asked, as they reached the traffic lights, looking eagerly at Hannah. It was just one set, not even as tall as a lamp post, and looked as though it hadn't been touched in fifty years.

"I'm not sure." Hannah wished Hermione would pipe down, so she could think for a minute.

"Will your hair stand on end or something? What if you touched it – would it make your hands tingle?"

"I don't _know. _It's months ago since … and the whole point is that _if_ we're right, it's only going to be a tiny bit of magic. I might not feel anything."

"Sorry." Hermione looked contrite and Hannah felt mean for snapping at her. "I didn't mean to hassle you." She backed away and headed for the T-shaped junction where the two roads met, looking up and down the main road that crossed the lane at right-angles and curved away in both directions. Hannah followed her, thinking she might as well see how the land lay. It had been ages since she'd been here. The supermarket lay in the other direction, and there had been scant opportunity for her to leave the little town in the last eleven months, right up until the day she'd gone to London with her dad and met Neville.

There was very little traffic going either way, but at that moment a red hatchback zoomed past, going a lot faster than the forty miles an hour speed limit. It wasn't a wide road, and visibility from the junction was poor in both directions. Hannah wondered again why the driver of a heavy goods vehicle would have chosen this route. A simple accident seemed far and away the most likely explanation. She hoped Hermione hadn't sneaked off for no reason, when she probably had a million and one other things to do.

They turned and walked back to where Neville was waiting, peering at the penknife and turning it over in his hands. He'd unfolded every blade, plus the toothpick, the nail file and the thing for getting stones out of horses' hooves. From the clucks and sighs Hermione was making, Hannah wondered if she were wishing that Tonks had given _her _the early warning system. She'd probably say that Neville wasn't known for his lightning-quick reactions. That was all _she_ knew.

Hannah decided she'd better get on with it. She began by running her hands over the post of the traffic light in a distracted fashion. It wasn't coated in the horrible scratchy stuff that newer street furniture all seemed to be covered in. The metal was smooth and unpainted, almost soft to the touch but that was all – it was just a post. She felt daft doing this.

"Hannah – remind me. Did the lorry driver say that he saw your mum waiting at the lights and then she pulled out in front of him at the last minute?"

At Hermione's question, she let go as if the cold metal had burned her. "That's right."

"So if he's telling the truth, the traces, if there are any, will be on all three lights?"

"Erm – I suppose so." She should stop messing about and find a way to examine the actual light mechanism.

Hannah could see that Neville was bewildered at this exchange. She thought she could see a way to climb up to the light and gave the other girl a quick look. _Would you mind …?_

Hermione happily obliged. "Red on its own means _stop _Neville, which is what it would have been showing as Hannah's mum arrived at the junction. Then it will have changed to red and amber together, meaning _get ready to go, _then finally to green, which means_you may proceed_."

"Oh," said Neville politely. "Thanks."

Hannah sized up the distance between the ground and the top of an old and crumbling wall that flanked the lane, separating it from a field on the other side. "I think I'm going to have to actually touch the glass," she said thoughtfully. "I'm not getting anything from down here."

Neville looked at the jagged edges of flint sticking out from the wall doubtfully. "Rather you than me," said Hermione. "How are you going to get up there?"

Hannah shrugged, dismissing their concerns. It wasn't all that high. "Neville, can you give me a hand?" she asked, waving her foot in the air descriptively.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Neville, leaning over with clasped hands so that she could step onto them.

"'Course I am,." She sprang lightly off one foot and reached to clutch the top of the wall with her hands. "Ouch!" She couldn't help but cry out as she scrambled up and wriggled around on her tummy until she was sitting astride the wall. _That was sharp._ She laughed it off. "Good job I didn't wear a skirt today."

"Can you touch the lights?" Hermione called.

Hannah leaned over to tap the glass disc of the red light, which was in the process of changing to amber. It wasn't even hot. "Perfect."

"Right then. We'll leave you to it," said Hermione in the confidently bossy tone that Hannah found slightly irritating. "Neville, why don't you go and keep an eye on the main road while I scout round here?"

"N – no." Neville hesitated but his voice held the_I'm-not-arguing-about-this_ note that she'd heard him use to such good effect with Augusta a few times. "I think we should all stay in sight of each other. And I'm not leaving Hannah."

"F – fine." Neville's friend of six years was looking at him as though a Pygmy Puff had suddenly started speaking English. Hannah wanted to smirk, but held her face straight.

"W – would you mind going and walking up and down? Here – take this for a bit." Neville handed Hermione the red and silver knife, now safely folded away again. Still looking slightly abashed, Hermione took it and went to do as she was told.

Hannah placed her hand on the green light, feeling foolish again. She'd never _tried_ to get one of her 'funny feelings' before, unless she counted the time in Charms she'd willed her wand to leap out of her hand and bop Zacharias Smith on the nose as he was fixing Susie's plait to the back of her chair with a Sticking Charm. It hadn't worked, so she'd hexed him instead.

She closed her eyes and did her best to block out the sound of the wind whistling through the poplar trees in the next-door field and the occasional speeding car on the main road. The light felt inert, lifeless – just what glass was supposed to feel like in fact. She concentrated harder. All at once, a faint wave of nausea sent saliva flooding to the back of her mouth. Underlying the slightly warm, smooth and hard surface of the glass disc she could now feel a graininess, an almost imperceptible stickiness. It was familiar. What did it remind her of? Danny Harding's water pistol, that was it. Only weaker. Eagerly, she shifted her hand to the amber light and waited to feel the same sensation. Nothing. She pressed harder, with a strange feeling that if she let it, her hand would disappear, melt into the surface of the glass and the rest of her would follow, becoming one with the metal post and copper wire and plastic casing of the mechanism itself.

Hannah waited. Still nothing. The red light was the same story. She tested the green one again, frowning. Immediately, the nausea returned, stronger than before.

"How's it going?" Neville's low voice woke her from her reverie.

"I think I'm done. Can you pass me the knife?"

"Hold on." Neville raised his voice. "Hermione – come back!"

She pelted back down the lane towards them. "We're all clear. Any luck?" she asked eagerly.

"Some," replied Hannah, holding out her hand for the knife. Carefully, she scored a line all the way round the edge of the green glass, pressed the lower half with a finger and levered it out. She held it in her hand for a moment, checking that what she'd just done hadn't interfered with the older magic. She was fascinated to realise that now she was looking for it, she could see an infinitesimally small, intensely bright ring of light around the edge of the cut glass. Tonks' dad's magic, she supposed. How strange it was, that just being in a non-magical area could make such a difference to what she could see. Even as she was looking at it, the glow faded until it was no more than a few specks of glimmering dust similar to the ones they'd seen on Augusta's Transfigured hat. A second later, the last one dwindled into nothingness. She touched the edge of the glass. It sent a tingle through her finger and she could feel a strange tickly feeling at the back of her throat, like when she put too much butter on her toast.

"Look," she said, bringing out her wand. She drew several elegant concentric circles in the air above the glass and then tapped it. "_Emergo!_" A burst of clear light shot from the end of her wand, momentarily dazzling her. Immediately, a dusting of the specks reappeared, like gold iron filings, and then just as quickly reabsorbed themselves into her wand.

"It works," breathed Hermione. "Your spell works, Neville! The movement …?"

"A variation on a Substantive Charm – you know, for bringing forth something concrete …" Neville's voice trailed off in embarrassment. Hannah felt fiercely proud of him.

"Out of nothing. Of course." Hermione nodded, her eyebrows startled Vs of admiration. "It looks as though it picks up power from any magical object. The Dark spell is untraceable though, which makes sense …"

"Even if we had the wand, I think it'd be too low a level to see." Hannah stowed her wand back in the belt loop of her jeans. "It's there though – all over," she finished with distaste.

Without any real need of assistance, but allowing Neville to guide her feet anyway, Hannah climbed down from the wall. Gratefully she dropped the glass disc into the plastic freezer bag Hermione had had the foresight to bring. She wiped her hands vigorously on her jeans.

"Just that one?" Hermione asked, avid curiosity apparent in every line of her body. "You know what that means don't you?" The two girls regarded each other levelly. Slowly, she nodded.

This time, Hannah came to Neville's rescue. Reading his puzzled expression, she said quickly, "It shows it wasn't mum's fault. Her light was green – as green as the lorry driver's." There was a constriction in her throat, worse than the Apparition feeling. "She wouldn't have stopped at all. He lied." She wrapped her arms around herself tightly, hunching her shoulders against a gust of unseasonably cold wind that was making her shiver.

They were standing in a triangle in the middle of the road. Neville looked round nervously, his forehead creased, as he tried to work it out. Why on _earth_ would someone set up something so unnecessarily complicated? He'd never seen the _point_ of Muggle-baiting, leaving aside the rights and wrongs of it. Facing him, more familiar across a cauldron or a desk, was the sight of Hermione's brain working furiously. "He _definitely_ wasn't a wizard?"

Hannah, whose normally pink cheeks were the colour of cream cheese, shoved her hand in her pocket and pulled out the crumpled coroner's report and the one from the Ministry given her by Arthur Weasley. Hermione scanned them both swiftly. "I see. It would have made things a lot simpler if he was."

"What do you mean?" Neville recognised the wobble in Hannah's voice, thick with unshed tears. Automatically, he reached for her hand. Hermione, forging ahead with her theory, hadn't noticed.

"Well – if he's a Muggle, why would he lie? Think about it – it's a better story if your mum was going fast. He must believe he's telling the truth …"

"Which means …"

Neville caught up at the same moment as Hannah, who murmured almost inaudibly, "It's a false memory."

"Exactly. This wizard or witch, whoever they are, wasn't just out to get your mum, they've also done something pretty horrible to this poor man. Supposing he was under the Imperius Curse, and then he was Obliviated, then …"

"We're no further forward." Hannah's head dropped and a curtain of blonde hair hid her face. Neville waited for the first tear to splash on the ground. It didn't come.

"No. Sorry to sound so brutal but I doubt the Ministry are going to go out of their way to help you."

Hannah lifted her head again. Her eyes were glassy but her cheeks were dry. "What about Mr Weasley?"

"I don't know," Hermione said slowly. "Even if he can help – and I know he'll try – if I know anything about how the Ministry works, they're going to want to keep this swept tidily under the carpet. The coroner's finding of misadventure is a very convenient scapegoat."

The despair on Hannah's face was painful to see. He had to say something. "Unless the driver changes his story ..."

"But Neville – how are we going to make him do that?" Hannah held his hand tightly and looked at him pleadingly. "If his memory has been modified, he _can't_ change his story. It's hopeless."

It couldn't be. There had to be _something_.

One or two passers-by were starting to look at them curiously. Slowly, they walked back to the little spinney. Hermione checked her watch. "It's almost nine-thirty. I'll have to get back soon. What do you want to do?"

Neville held out his hand. "Can I have a look at those bits of writing, Hannah?"

"What's the point?" Numbly, she handed them over. "There's nothing on them."

Neville found what he was looking for, on the unfamiliar tiny print of the coroner's report. "Hannah – listen," he said urgently as he knew how.

"What?"

"Go home and wait with Gran. Don't come after me."

"Why, where are you going? Stop Neville – wait! You can't …"

"I'll be back as soon as I can." He fixed his eyes on the lorry driver's address and concentrated harder than he ever had in his life. With a noise like a car backfiring, he disappeared.

* * *

Hermione watched the other girl's mouth open in a silent scream. Paler than ever, Hannah swayed and fell down in a dead faint. Shaken herself by the suddenness of Neville's exit, Hermione put out a hand and steadied herself against the trunk of the nearest tree._Honestly_. She might have known that something would go wrong with these two.

She took her wand out and quickly conjured a glass of water. Crouching, she held it to Hannah's lips, hoping she wouldn't have to resort to dashing her face with it. But Hannah was already coming round. With a low moan, her eyes flew open. "I'm all right," she muttered, pushing the glass away. "What happened?" Before Hermione could answer, she sat bolt upright, "We have to go after him."

"Hannah, I – I know you want to but I _really_ don't think it's a good idea."

"We have to. I do anyway. Can you take me – please?"

"It's not worth the risk. What good would it do? Neville didn't look like he wanted company."

Without sniffling or sobbing, Hannah was crying, tears sliding down her cheeks as though she didn't even know they were there. "How could he just go off like that?"

Hermione didn't have an answer. "Hannah – is Neville really all right?"

"In – in what way?"

"He just seems – different."

Hannah dragged the back of her hand across her face. "He _has_ been different today," she said, as though it hadn't occurred to her before.

"D'you – d'you think it's because of me being here?"

Hannah looked at her suspiciously. _For heaven's sake_. "I'm talking about after what happened at the end of term," she said with some asperity. "Is he still upset about it?"

Hannah stood up and began brushing earth and dead leaves from her clothes. "How should I know? He's barely said a word on the subject. You tell me – you were there."

Hermione sighed. "That's just it. I was – somewhere else. After it was all over, there was something I wanted to tell Neville, but I didn't get a chance. I don't even know how he was hurt."

"I can tell you that much – if you really want to know." Hermione wasn't completely sure she did, but she gave a firm nod. "He told me he got hit once, not seriously. And he said he was thrown to the ground by something on the stairs, and he got up after that as well."

"And …?"

"Something like – someone was throwing curses around all over the place?" Hermione nodded again. It fitted with what Ron and Ginny had said in the hospital wing. "He said he was slow to dodge out of the way of one of them – a _Reductor,_ and he felt it hit him." Hermione winced.

"He said it hurt – a lot. Then the ceiling started to fall in and Harry tripped over him and pretty soon after that he blacked out." Hannah looked at her curiously. "Why are you so interested? He wasn't the only one who was injured – from what Neville said, Ron's brother's lucky to be alive too."

"Yes, he is." It was terrible about Bill – but he'd made a good recovery. He was tough and used to danger. He'd known the risks as a member of the Order. But she couldn't say that to Hannah. "Neville was the only one of – of us who …" She frowned, wondering how much she could say.

"Look, just tell me," said Hannah. She sounded weary rather than impatient. "What difference can it make now?"

Hermione found she had to explain about the Felix Felicis at length before all Hannah's questions were answered – about its effects, and why they'd had it in the first place and what Harry had told them to do with it before he'd left with Professor Dumbledore. By the end she had a very good idea why Hannah had been a prefect, despite her famed scattiness. She was no pushover, thought Hermione with grudging respect.

"So you see, I was no help at all. He should have had my share."

Hannah shook her head. "That's just daft, Hermione, and you know it. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't taken it? It's impossible to say how these things work and how far the effects spread. Perhaps Neville got some benefit from being near Ron and Ginny."

"Even so, I wanted to see him, to explain. I tried – but he was always busy."

"What about the others – did they speak to him?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." Hermione voiced what was troubling her. "I think he might have been avoiding us."

"Well, you know why, don't you?" Hannah's mouth was set in a grim line.

"N – not really."

"He feels like he failed you. That he's a liability. Isn't that how you all make him feel?"

"We _don't_." That wasn't fair, thought Hermione, but there was a touch of doubt beneath her outrage. She struggled to make Hannah see how it was. "Neville did more than anyone! I told you I wasn't even there. Ron and Ginny blamed themselves too …"

Hermione stopped short, having managed to avoid mentioning Draco Malfoy's name up until now. She had no idea how much Hannah knew. "Well, anyway … he fought brilliantly, everyone said so." she finished lamely.

"Neville doesn't know that though. How would he? You could have written to him, any of you. He hasn't had a letter from you – or from any of his _friends_ – this summer. Not one."

_Oh my goodness_. She was right. Hermione felt stricken. Seeing the situation through Hannah's eyes, it was obvious she should have made more of an effort to find out how Neville was after the battle – they all should. They'd just been totally pre-occupied. It was too easy to forget about Neville – because he never minded.

"I'll write, I promise. It's just …" _difficult_. She sighed. There was no satisfactory explanation she could offer.

"What about the other thing – this lucky potion – do I tell him?"

Hermione thought about it. Shouldn't it be her responsibility? Then again, even if he was angry with her, Neville had a right to know, sooner rather than later. He had worked so hard during the short-lived days of the DA. And his Shield Charms _were_ better than Ron or Ginny's. "Would you, please?"

"Of course, if you want me to." Hannah's tone was sober, but kinder than it had been. She wondered if Hannah blamed her for Neville taking off like that. Maybe not. "Hermione, you should have told him – but he won't be angry."

Right again. It didn't stop her feeling guilty though. "Thanks, Hannah. Let me take you home. I _really_ have to go."

"It's Harry Potter's birthday today, isn't it?"

Hermione nodded. She wondered, not for the first time, why she'd offered to come on this wild goose chase, today of all days. She needed the distraction, was the short answer. Her stomach clenched every time she thought about what they were about to do. Should she give Hannah another message for Neville? No, she resolved. She'd put it in the letter and get Ron and Harry to write a note as well.

"Neville's thinking of not going back to school this year, you know." Hermione jumped. Was the girl a Legilimens for heaven's sake?

"He's said that?"

"Not in so many words. He worries about his Gran."

"He worries about you too, Hannah, it's obvious." It was more than obvious. "He ought to go back, though. So should you. You're needed there."

"Neville is, not me."

"Don't say that."

"I'm scared, Hermione. More scared than I've ever been before."

"He'll be OK, Hannah. You both will."

"I'm not worried about _me_. Come on, let's get back so I can face the music."

Hermione knew exactly how she felt. In another life, she thought wistfully, maybe they could be friends. She took a breath. "I hope we see each other again."

"Me too." Hannah sighed and gave a minute grin. "I think I'm getting the hang of this Apparition thing. It's mostly concentration, isn't it?"

Hermione took Hannah's hand and held on tightly. She never done this before and she didn't really have much of a clue where she was going. "Can you help me?"

"What do you need me to do?"

"Leave the Determination and Deliberation to me. Help me focus on our Destination." Forgetting all about near-silent Apparition, Hermione concentrated on getting them home in one piece.

* * *

Hannah rubbed at her eye, which was stinging, tell-tale sign of an incipient headache lurking beneath the lingering nausea brought on by the dark magic. She knocked at the front door. Somehow, it seemed wrong to go round the back, as she would have done without thinking if she were with Neville, or knew him to be inside.

Hermione had Disapparated again, seconds after ensuring Hannah had arrived safely.

The door opened. Augusta took in the scrapes on Hannah's hands, the torn sleeve of her grubby cardigan and the tear-stained cheeks. So. Her old woman's heart stopped for a second or two. "He's not with you."

"He's … he went. I couldn't stop him."

She stood back and held the door open for the girl to come inside. "So he's not – captured?"

"Not … no."

"Then we wait." She led the way through to the kitchen. "I'll make a brew."


	13. Upholding the Family Honour

Chapter Thirteen – Upholding the Family Honour 

He stumbled, spinning as he landed but managed not to fall over. As soon as Neville got his bearings, the enormity of the risk he'd taken washed over him, making him dizzy for a moment. He was standing on a broad pavement under a plane tree, on the corner of a residential street. Apparating to an unknown landing point; it was pure chance that the people he could see further along the road were walking away, rather than towards him. How could he have been so stupid? He whirled around, panic rising, checking that no one was approaching from the other direction.

Neville was accustomed to an habitual awareness of his lowliness in the overall scheme of things, but this morning it felt particularly oppressive. He kicked the tree, realising how quickly he'd become used to feeling – different. Of course, the holidays were always better than school. In the comforting surroundings of home, he hardly noticed Gran's criticisms, so marked in her letters and – these days – very occasional Howlers. Even the jokes about his unreliability and forgetfulness didn't seem as frequent this summer. Seeing Hermione again, as well as the Auror who had fought alongside him in the battle, had reminded him how ineffectual he'd been. The reserves of courage he'd found yesterday during his coming-of-age party, as well as the happiness he'd felt, holding Hannah in his arms later that evening, had trickled away. Who was he, to think he could protect anyone, or do anything useful? He kicked out again, stubbing his toe painfully against the bark. The panic had receded, leaving too-familiar anger and shame in its wake. _Get a grip, Longbottom_, the voice in his head sneered_. What a pathetic excuse for a wizard_, it mocked.

Self-pity? Gran would be more appalled by that than by his stupidity, if she could hear what he was thinking. Neville pulled himself together. He might have been careless, but he was here now. He would do this for Hannah, not just give up without a fight. He squinted at the tiny print of the report still clutched firmly in his hand. _The Vicarage, St. Oswald's Road, Hartlepool_ was the address printed on the flimsy parchment. He was standing right outside it. He allowed himself a momentary glow of achievement, mingled with intense relief. What next?

The other houses in the street were small and scruffy in comparison. He pushed open a wrought iron gate that screeched under his hand and walked up to the front door. It was big, with stained glass panels. Through it he could see the front hall, completely blocked by an old pram and several of those wheeled contraptions that Muggles sometimes pushed themselves around on. Perhaps there was another entrance. Neville made his way around to the side of the house. He was now out of sight of the road and relaxed a little. His instinct had been right, there was a side door like at home. The back of his neck prickled as he became aware of a looming presence at his right shoulder and he turned slowly. An enormous building only a few feet from the garden wall threw a shadow right up to his feet. The church the house belonged to was _huge_, five times the size of the country chapel outside his village. Weird. It seemed an unlikely place for a 'lorry driver' to live.

After a few minutes consideration – he hadn't really thought through his plan of approach before coming here – Neville decided against trying the door with _Alohomora_. With the bloke being a Muggle, it would only put him on his guard. And what if someone was right behind the door? He'd be in danger of breaking the Statute of Secrecy for at least the third time that day, and it wasn't even – Neville checked his watch – half past ten yet. Thinking about it, it was sort of funny that the bells weren't ringing for morning service. _Merlin. _Neville felt anxious again. What if the church was filled to bursting with Muggles about to flood out and surround him? He thought back to the day he'd spent travelling around London and shuddered. No thanks. He raised his hand and knocked firmly on the door.

After a pause that wasn't long enough for him to lose his nerve, it opened. A tall, heavily-built man with knuckles like hams stood in front of him, blocking the doorway. Despite his intimidating aspect, the man's eyes were mild, his expression vacant, almost child-like.

"Have you come to read the meter?" The voice was a low, hoarse rumble, as though it hadn't been used in a while. He stood back and opened the door wider. Neville reeled as a powerful stench hit him. Looking over the man's bulging shoulder, he could see a kitchen with a table in the centre, like at home, and a sink on the other side of the room. The difference was, in contrast to Gran's kitchen, scrubbed to within an inch of its life after every meal, the table in front of him, as well as the draining-board and every other available surface, was piled with stinking rubbish.

"No. I – I've come about …" Neville hesitated. He held the coroner's report out. The man's dull eyes took on a spark of life.

"What you got there?" He pawed urgently at the piece of paper. Neville let him have it. The man squinted at the report, nodding eagerly and muttering under his breath. Then he looked up. Neville was surprised and a little fearful to note that the man's eyes had misted over, and his face was working furiously. "You'd better come in," he muttered.

Taking a deep breath, Neville followed the man into the kitchen.

* * *

All afternoon, Hannah and Augusta occupied themselves by keeping up the pretence that it was a normal Sunday. Augusta showed Hannah a couple of household spells she didn't know, such as how to mix in soap with the water from her wand, so there was no need to carry a bucket around while doing the floors. Hannah spent a few minutes working out how to adapt it, then returned the favour by washing the outside window panes. After a small hiccough in which she soaked the potato patch with vinegar, she went on to water the entire garden, usually part of Neville's weekend routine. She offered to mow the lawn too, but Augusta declined, citing thunder on the way. "It interferes with the charm Neville's got on that contraption. Come on in. It's time for a cuppa."

It had been at least an hour since the last pot of tea. Hannah walked towards to the house, saying _Finite Incantatem_ firmly in her head. To her mild gratification, the water coming out of her wand slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She was getting better at that.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Hannah crumbled cake nervously onto her plate. It felt strange being here on her own with Neville's gran. For once, Augusta didn't frown at her table manners. Late afternoon sun struck diagonally across the scrubbed wooden surface. Hannah couldn't make out the older woman's expression for dust motes spinning and dancing in the air.

"Are you worried about your father?" Augusta asked abruptly.

Taken aback, Hannah realised that he'd barely crossed her mind in the past five hours. "Not really," she replied, thinking aloud. "I know he could have been attacked or taken but somehow, I know this is one of his 'things.'"

"Yes, that's how it seems to me. Grief … it does funny things to people."

_Only if you give in to it_, thought Hannah, a little resentfully. She hadn't forgiven Dad for embarrassing her in front of Professor Sprout and everyone else. Hesitantly, she voiced something that had been on her mind following their visit to St. Mungo's the day before. "I can't imagine how you've coped, all these years."

"One does what one has to," Augusta said stiffly, pouring tea into two earthenware mugs. "He was never any trouble, that made things easier. And I had help, in the early years at least. I'm very proud of the way my grandson's turned out, of course."

_You'd never know it_, Hannah said to herself, storing the sentence away to tell Neville when – _not if_ – she saw him again. "I – I didn't really mean that. I was talking about – um – your son, and – er – Neville's mum." She paused, then in a rush continued, "And then losing your husband a few years later." Augusta pushed the mug in her direction, a familiar, forbidding frown written across her strong features. Hannah blushed, and wondered if she was about to have her head bitten off. But the fierce old lady seemed calm, sipping her tea in contemplative silence. Had she gone too far? _In for a penny_ … "I – I suppose – I mean, was it a comfort having Neville to – to remember them by?" she mumbled.

"You could put it that way …" Augusta fell silent again. She'd never asked for anybody's pity. The silly girl sitting in front of her asking impertinent questions ought to worry about herself. Motherless … practically fatherless from all she'd observed. At least Neville had always had a good example set him, even if he wasn't quite the young man his father had been at that age. "Like I said … he's a good boy. Kindly. Soft-hearted, some might say." There. That'd teach the girl to stick her nose into a family's business.

At that moment, a cloud passed across the sun, darkening the kitchen. Hannah came into focus across the table. The girl's eyebrows were knitted together. For a moment, Augusta was startled. She lifted her head and readied herself for a fight.

"Are you saying it's all one way?" Hannah began. "You think Neville gets nothing from going out with _me_?"

"I don't believe I said anything like that, young woman. Although, at this moment, I fail to see any advantage in his situation. He is heaven knows where, on some misguided mission, in very grave danger. Why is that, do you suppose?"

Hannah didn't answer for a moment. Then very quietly, she said, "Have _you_ had a lot of success telling Neville what to do recently?" Her voice grew stronger. "At least I accept him for who he is, and don't try to make all his decisions for him, and criticise him constantly."

Augusta sipped her tea, momentarily dumbfounded. She tried to locate the source of the uncomfortable sensations that the girl's demeanour and words were provoking. She found a sixty-year-old memory: Minerva McGonagall telling her off in front of the entire common-room for making Georgina Smythe cry. She sat back in her chair, keeping her counsel for the time being. Hannah left her seat and moved around the side of the table. The girl's hair stood out over her forehead in an unattractive fuzz. Accidental magic at her age. No self-control at all. Although, she supposed this was better than tears, at least. If there was one thing she couldn't stand, Augusta reflected, it was a cry-baby.

Hannah's voice was still perfectly level. "Nor do I compare him to someone else, every single time I look at him. I see you, watching him like a hawk, waiting for him to make a mistake – just so you can tell him, yet again, how his dad could do that spell when he was fourteen, and that _not everyone's born to be a great wizard_. He's had sixteen years of it. Don't you think it's enough? Isn't he good enough for you yet?"

Augusta sniffed. "Sit down, love. Ready for another cup?" She busied herself with pouring for a minute.

When Hannah was back in her chair, Augusta took a sip of the strengthening brew and sighed. "Let me tell you something, my girl," she began, as kindly as she knew how. "There'll be no quarrel between us, not today, and not as long as you're a guest in my house. I'm not too proud to admit it – you might have a point about how I am with my grandson." She took a certain grim satisfaction in Hannah's almost-inaudible gasp of surprise. "That's by the by. But you need to learn that you won't get far in this world by speaking out of turn and risking making enemies of people who've been good to you."

Augusta read distress and embarrassment on the girl's face, as recognition of the truth of her words sank in. Thank Merlin, she wasn't a hard-faced little mare at least. "No, it's all right, you stay quiet a minute. Now, Neville and me have been rubbing along with each other for a good long time now. He knows I'm not perfect. He also knows I love the bones of him. I'm telling you this because I can see you care for him."

"I do. I'm sorry, Augusta, really I am. I – I didn't mean to be rude."

"It's all right lass, I've heard worse.

Fiddling with her cake crumbs again, Hannah said, "You've been very good me – and my dad. I'm very grateful."

"Well, believe it or not, I couldn't be happier to see Neville so bright and cheerful as he's been these past few weeks. Now, don't start crying, there's a good girl."

She struggled to keep the impatience out of her voice, reminding herself that the child had not long lost her mother. "Goodness knows, it's been a hard day, but I can tell you something for nothing." Hannah looked up in surprise at the dryly humorous note in Augusta's voice. "Even a patient lad like my Neville will get fed up with a girl who turns on the waterworks at the drop of a hat."

Hannah sniffed, swiping at her cheeks with the back of hand. "I know," she said. She breathed deeply in the way Professor Sprout had always told her, and slowly relaxed.

"One last thing."

Hannah paused in the act of blowing her nose. For the first time, the older woman sounded hesitant, almost embarrassed. "Yesterday – Enid and Algie. I don't know how much you heard."

"A – a little," stuttered Hannah, equally embarrassed.

"Well, you listen to me. I want you to know that I may be old and set in my ways but I don't hold with that sort of talk, not in my house. Magic is magic, wherever it turns up. You're as good a witch as anyone, and a good deal better than some who think they've got the right to talk a lot of rubbish for no better reason than …" She broke off, loath to criticise family to an outsider. "Don't let anyone tell you different."

"Th – thank you," said Hannah, cramming the last of the fruit cake into her mouth for something to do. Her ears were burning. She had a feeling she might just have received the nearest thing to an apology Augusta ever made.

"Now then, at lunchtime you said you had a few Apparition questions?"

"Um, y – yes."

"I've looked out Neville's book. I thought we could have a bit of a practice, pass the time until he gets back."

On impulse, Hannah jumped up again and went over to Augusta's chair. She put her arm around the old woman, who started in surprise, before turning stiffly in her chair to return the hug.

* * *

Neville glanced up and down the street. It was deserted, apart from a pair of Muggles who were swaying arm in arm, singing, '_Show me the way to go home_.' He tapped on the glass and waited for an answer. After a longer pause than usual, he was allowed in.

The reception area was completely empty, even the Enquiries desk appeared to have been temporarily deserted. That was good. He didn't want to be bothered with awkward questions. He knew where he needed to be. He slipped through the double doors by the desk, into the narrow corridor beyond.

A few minutes later he emerged onto the fourth floor landing and pushed his way through the doors that led into the Spell Damage corridor. It was dark and quiet but he knew there was a Healer station just inside the first open ward. Determinedly _not thinking_ about Mum and Dad asleep just a few yards away, he walked towards the nearest door under which a faint glow was seeping.

Nervously, he cleared his throat. "Erm – hello?" A young man, sitting at a bench beneath rows and rows of glass bottles carefully locked away behind wire screens, looked up in surprise. He was eating a sandwich and reading a book called _Savage Spells and How to Reverse Them_. Neville recognised him with relief. The young Healer on duty was the one most likely to listen to him, rather than throwing him out on his ear. "Mr Pye?"

"Good lord. It – it's Neville isn't it?" Augustus Pye threw down his book. "Keep your voice down, would you, I've only just got the last one off to sleep." He hurried out into the corridor, pushing Neville in front of him and closing the door softly behind them. "Now what's all this? I'm afraid I can't possibly let you see your parents at this hour."

"N – no. That's not why I'm here. I need your advice. I – I think I've found a patient for you."

"What d'you – where are they?" The Healer looked up and down the corridor. "This is most irregular. The afflicted witch or wizard needs to book themselves in downstairs for processing."

"They can't. They're not here. It's a – a Muggle."

"Dear oh dear. You'd better come along to the office." He led the way to a small room right at the end of the corridor. The walls were lined with files and scrolls heaped in untidy piles on the overflowing shelves. Otherwise, the only furnishings were a scratched desk and a few rickety wooden chairs. Pye sat down behind the desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a bottle of amber-coloured liquid. He splashed some into a rather dusty-looking tumbler and handed it to Neville.

"Go on. You look like you could do with it. Healer's orders."

Neville took a huge gulp and nearly choked as the liquid burned its way down his oesophagus. When he could speak, he stammered, "I – I tried to leave. But I couldn't for ages. He wouldn't let me." Pye gestured to one of the remaining chairs.

"The Muggle?"

Neville nodded and sank into the chair, taking another sip from the tumbler, shuddering. After a moment, a warm glow settled in his stomach, gradually spreading to his fingers and toes. He began to relax for the first time in what felt like days. He struggled to explain. "I mean, I could've but it didn't seem right, you know?"

The Healer inclined his head briefly. "Of course, if the chap was ill. You did the right thing. What was wrong with him?"

"I'm not sure. He was confused. He kept repeating things. The same few phrases over and over. Like Mum. But then he'd sort of snap back to normal and be all right. Then I'd ask him a question and it'd set him off again."

"What kind of questions?"

"I – I was trying to find out something." Neville ground to a halt.

"I can help only if I know everything relevant to the man's condition," said Pye, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

As briefly as he could, Neville found himself describing the crash that had killed Hannah's mother and their visit to the scene that morning. He glossed over how he'd foolishly gone off on his own, Apparating to a place he didn't know, feeling it hardly cast his judgement in the best light. While he talked, Pye remained silent, merely nodding at him to continue when he stumbled. Eventually he got to the end. "The man's been hurt somehow, I'm sure of it. And it'll all be useless if we can't get him to remember and admit the truth about what happened."

When Neville had finished, the Healer stood up and paced the room. "Let me see if I understand this correctly. You went alone to see this man, to question him about an event in which he was manipulated into murdering someone, even though you had reason to suspect that he was under the Imperius Curse and that his memory had been tampered with in some way."

"Er – yes."

The pacing stopped. "What did you plan on doing if the culprit turned up?"

"I – I don't know." Put like that, it did sound pretty stupid.

"Well, never mind that now. You asked him to go over this motoring accident with you, which happened ten months ago?"

"I tried. But it just seemed to make him, you know …"

"Agitated."

"That's right. He kept saying that his mind was playing tricks on him. He said there was something wrong, something he should remember."

The Healer sat down again, rocking back in his chair as he pondered Neville's words. "Hmm. There are any number of possible explanations, of course. Head trauma from the accident, for example."

"I – I don't think so," said Neville anxiously. "I'm sure it said on the bit of parchment that no one else was hurt."

"Do you have the inquest report with you now?" Pye's voice was eager. "It would be very useful to have a look at it."

"I – I'm sorry." Neville hung his head. "I forgot to pick it up on my way out." He could see it now, where it had fallen from the lorry driver's hand onto the filthy floor.

"Never mind." Pye's shoulders drooped despondently. Then he perked up again. "What about … yes, now there's an idea –_Post Traumatic Stress Disorder_? My reading tells me it can cause all sorts of memory difficulties."

"Er –" Neville didn't have the slightest idea what Post-thingy might be, but he was starting to fear that Pye wasn't going to believe him. Hadn't he spent enough hours sitting in the Closed Ward to recognise the difference between a bump on the head and the kind of damage caused by a spell? He groped desperately for words that would convince the Healer. "Somehow, he got the idea that I knew something and – and he wanted me to help him. He kept insisting I had to stay until I could go with him to the hospital – the Muggle hospital. He said he'd been there before but they made him go home. He said now – now they'd have to believe him."

"A Muggle psychiatric facility, or possibly a neurology department, how terribly interesting. I'd be fascinated to visit one of their institutions myself, but if they couldn't help him …" Pye's voice trailed off mournfully. With apparent regret, he abandoned the idea of collaboration with the Muggle health services."Yes, very well then. Damage from an Obliviation of some description, it's a possibility. You said he didn't want you to leave? Was he distressed or anxious, likely to be a danger to himself?"

"He was getting a – a bit worked up, until I promised him I'd stay. He seemed really happy then, like we were friends or something, and he made me a cup of tea. He was drinking something – er – stronger." He gestured to the empty tumbler. "I stayed until he fell asleep, like I do with Mum sometimes. Then I came here. It was the only place I could think of."

"You did exactly the right thing in the circumstances. It would have done no good for you to stay longer, none at all. He looked sharply at Neville. "The girl you referred to – Hannah?" Neville nodded. "You mentioned she's been diagnosed with a sensitivity to magic? It's a rare condition."

"Y – yes. At least, the school nurse said so."

"Poppy Pomfrey still at Hogwarts? Ah well, in that case we can be confident the diagnosis is accurate. Interesting." The Healer lapsed into contemplation of Neville's discarded tumbler. "Regarding this man, you leave me with something of a dilemma. From a medical point of view, it sounds as though he needs urgent assistance. Unfortunately, I'm completely unable to move in a case like this without direction from Magical Law Enforcement. I'm not sure there is anything that can be done until the morning."

Neville half-rose from his seat. "But – but what if that's too late? He might wake up. I promised him. I can't let him down. And – and there's something I haven't told you. S – something I saw at the man's house."

"Is it medically relevant?"

"N – no, I don't think so."

"Good. I don't want to know then."

"But I think it could mean danger to a lot of people."

"Save it for the Aurors. All right then, let me think." Pye rubbed his eyes wearily and stifled a yawn. He looked as exhausted as Neville felt.

"Can't you Floo someone?" he volunteered.

"Floo's no good. It's the middle of the night – there won't be anyone in the Ministry at this time of night. We could always try a letter, our emergency owls are pretty quick, and there's bound to be an M.L.E. staff member on duty somewhere." He took parchment and quill out of the middle drawer. "Who do you want to address it to?"

Neville breathed a sigh of relief. "Arthur Weasley, please. He'll know what it's about."

* * *

It wasn't Arthur who walked into Reception an hour later, but someone even more comfortingly familiar. Neville was immediately overwhelmed by a flood of cheery banter. "Your grandmother is going to make me wish I'd never been born. What the hell have you been up to? Is this something to do with that tasty little girlfriend of yours? Augusta warned me she was trouble. Ah – Pye – good to see you." Neville's godfather shook hands with the young Healer, who seemed somewhat dismayed at the appearance of the Head of the Obliviation Squad.

Arnold Peasegood sat down on one of the wooden chairs that lined the walls, which creaked in protest. "Neville, you have no idea how lucky you are that Arthur and I were both working tonight."

"Anything interesting?" asked Pye.

"Nasty little collection of fake specs. The inventors' claim was they stop people having 'treasonous' thoughts. Of course, there was a market. It's been total panic stations since the Ministry started using Veritaserum for random questioning."

"You – you're not interrogating people are you, Uncle Arnie?"

"Goodness me, no. Not my department. We Obliviators just clear up other people's mess." His godfather's jovial voice was tinged with bitterness. "Take these eye-glasses – the things were wiping out entire sets of everyday words. You try getting along without '_dark_', '_black_', '_mark_' and '_giant._' Awfully fiddly job to put right for the chumps who bought them before Arthur's lot managed to close the operation down, and it's not as though I've good people to spare."

"How many affected?" asked Pye nervously.

"We caught a lot of them near the point of sale. One poor beggar from Blackpool couldn't even remember how to get home. You might get a few walk-ins over the next few days. Alert us if you do, we'll send someone along to help with the restorations. Now then, I understand you need me to sign a release of some kind?"

"That's right." The Healer handed him a couple of sheets of parchment. "This one to say the Muggle has suspected Spell Damage. And this one arranging for collection from his home."

"Righto." Arnold Peasegood signed his name with a flourish. "Is that everything for now?" He handed the quill back.

"What will happen to him?" asked Neville.

"We'll bring him here and make him comfortable, and ascertain whether or not he is still under the Imperius Curse," answered Pye.

"You'll need to liaise with us on the memory problem." Turning to Neville, his godfather said conspiratorially, "We'll need to work out what spells are involved before we let these quacks do anything that might make him worse." He winked at the Healer, who smiled queasily. "I'll send someone along in the morning."

Uncle Arnie made for the exit. Neville trailed after him, exhausted and very hungry now that the adrenaline had worn off. "First things first," said his godfather, as they stepped onto the pavement outside the shop front of Purge and Dowse. "I'm taking you home before your gran has a heart attack."

"I can get home on my own," said Neville.

"Ah! I was forgetting."

"But first I need to talk to you about something. It's important."

"Eh – like that is it? All right – we can go for a bit of a walk."

Neville and his godfather wandered along the dimly-lit roads and quiet squares that surrounded the hospital. "Bit of advice about girls is it?" began Uncle Arnie. "I remember before I met your Auntie Charlotte …"

"N – nothing like that." Neville cut him off. He couldn't let himself be distracted by his godfather's habit of disconcertingly frank reminiscing. "Did Mr Weasley tell you what happened to Hannah's mum?"

Uncle Arnie nodded. "And he explained his theory about it. Must say, it didn't seem too likely to me at first – but if it turns out this Muggle _has_ had his brain scrambled … Bright chap, Arthur Weasley."

"There's some new stuff Mr Weasley doesn't know …" For the second time that night, Neville told how he and Hannah had worked out the virtually undetectable spell on the traffic light, and how it had allowed whoever was responsible to get away with making the car crash look like an accident. He finished by describing how they'd removed the glass from the light that morning.

"Splendid work, Neville." His godfather looked impressed. "Never knew you had it in you. Your little friend works in Misuse, does she? Well, that makes life simple, she can bring in this bit of evidence with her tomorrow morning. A chap by the name of Perkins, I seem to remember, deals with all that sort of thing now. Good man, very deft with a Memory Charm, for an amateur."

"That's the thing, Uncle Arnie. I haven't told you everything. I think Mr Perkins may be the one behind it all."

"Stuff and nonsense, Neville. Whatever makes you say that? He's a perfectly harmless old buffer, been with the Department for years."

"Well, for one thing he modifies people's memories all the time and – and I'm not sure that's all he does." Neville confided his suspicions about the spell Perkins had cast on the Muggle boy Hannah had told him about. "What if he put him under the Imperius Curse?"

Arnie shook his head. "There are lesser ways of encouraging someone to cooperate, Neville."

"That's not all," continued Neville stubbornly. "This toy the boy had – the water-piston thing with Dark spells on it. Well, I saw one – exactly how Hannah described it – in this bloke's kitchen."

"Toys like that are all over the place. Really, Neville, I think you're getting worked up over nothing."

"Muggle-baiting isn't _nothing_, Uncle Arnie." said Neville, shocked. "The thing Hannah found was dangerous."

"Of course it isn't – that's not what I meant." His godfather paused. "All right, I'll get it checked out. But as for this having anything to do with old Perkins – you're barking up the wrong tree there, Neville. It's time you went home, stopped worrying, and had a bit of fun. The summer will over before you know it. I mean it. I don't want you running all over the countryside getting yourself into scrapes you might not get out of so easily next time. Leave this for us to deal with now."

Neville saw it would do no good to press the matter further. "Thanks for coming to help me, Uncle Arnie."

"You've done well today, even if you did take a daft risk. Your mum and dad would be proud of you." Neville shuffled his feet. His godfather looked at him sharply. "Is this the first time you've done something like this? Gone off half-cocked without thinking about the consequences?" Neville considered. He didn't usually think about things that hard, he just did what seemed right at the time.

"Why?"

"Things worked out all right today – you were damn lucky. I don't want to preach. I could tell you some stuff about me and your dad. When we were about your age, we were pretty wild ourselves."

"Oh?" said Neville hopefully. Uncle Arnie was always good for a school or a war story about his dad.

"Wild, that's right. He could have ended up a bit of a lad, could Frank. He was clever all right, but he had it a bit too easy. Your mother was different. Alice knew how to have a laugh, but she was a hard worker all the same. When they got together, I was a bit surprised at first. She didn't seem like his type, too quiet, but she made him happy. He always used to say to me, '_I'm the lucky one, Arnie'_. He said I'd understand what he meant one day and he was right." Uncle Arnie paused, chuckling to himself. Then, seeming to realise he'd gone off track, he continued. "Not that she clipped his wings, no, I'm not saying that. Your dad just seemed to settle, get serious about work and so on."

Neville was having a hard time trying to follow what his godfather's ramble was driving at. "But I do work hard, Uncle Arnie. I'm doing loads better at school now I've dropped History of Magic and Astronomy and all those other subjects I'm rubbish at. I'm going to be a Herbologist, a proper one. As soon as I've caught up with Potions that is …"

"Yes, you're a good lad, Neville." Uncle Arnie sounded thoughtful. "Talented too, which isn't surprising." Neville stared at the floor. He could never deal with compliments, especially undeserved ones. However, it seemed his godfather wasn't about to hand him ten points. He took Neville by the shoulder, and when he spoke his voice was serious. "I saw the look in your eye yesterday, when you took on that old gorgon, Enid. Reminded me of someone. You ended up in Gryffindor for a reason – a bit of recklessness comes with the territory maybe, and sticking up for that pretty little wench does you credit. I don't doubt that was what was behind this escapade today."

"I just want to help," Neville said simply. He wished his godfather would stop calling Hannah 'little'. It sounded a bit … The right word eluded him.

"A noble sentiment lad, but it's dumb luck that you're here now, and it didn't end badly. How do you think that little peach of yours is feeling now, sitting at home, waiting for you and wondering if you'll show? Seems to me she's had more than her fair share of picking up the pieces this past year already."

It took a minute to sink in. He hadn't just been stupid. With a sick, acid feeling of shame, Neville realised that he'd been selfish too. His godfather hadn't finished yet. "And I don't suppose your gran was too pleased at you haring off at the crack of dawn today, well, yesterday now, I suppose?"

"No, she wasn't."

"Let's leave it there, Neville lad. I must say, I didn't expect to be playing the heavy godfather, it doesn't come naturally to me." In a transparent attempt to lighten the mood, Uncle Arnie changed the subject. "Did your grandmother tell you I witnessed some documents relating to you yesterday?" Neville looked up from his contemplation of a nasty dog mess on the pavement. His godfather's eyes were twinkling.

"Yes, she told me." Something _else_ to feel guilty about, after Gran had gone to so much trouble sorting it all out for him. But it was a big step, and one he wasn't completely sure he was ready to take. Neville knew he should be grateful to have kind relatives looking out for his interests, but he wished sometimes that he had more say over what happened to him. It wouldn't be right to mention it though. "Thank you, Uncle Arnie," he said dutifully.

His godfather's expression was shrewd. "Speaking of growing up, life changes and so on …" He gave a slight cough. "Anything you need to ask about the – er – fairer sex? You're of age now, of course, and no different to most blokes your age, I'd wager. Thinking about, you know ...?" Leaning over and nudging Neville with his elbow, Uncle Arnie tipped him a very definite wink.

Neville flushed, trying not to look embarrassed and guilty all over again. One thing he knew, he wasn't discussing any vague hopes he might have in that direction with _anyone_ except Hannah – when the time was right, of course. "N – no, it's fine, really," he mumbled.

"Sure about that? No – well, I won't pry. You'd best be getting back anyway. If I know Augusta, she'll be sitting up."

They stopped walking. "Hold on." The stout wizard looked up into the night sky, surveying the diffuse glow of the city light pollution. He extinguished the nearest street lights so that they were standing in a pool of inky darkness. "Off you go."

"Good night, Uncle Arnie." Neville concentrated hard, wanting to make a decent show of Disapparating in front of his godfather.

* * *

Hannah heard the back door creak and lifted her head. Her neck was stiff. She stretched out her arms and got up from the table. The kitchen was in darkness. Over in the corner, gentle snores could be heard coming from the rocking chair.

"Who is it?" she whispered, her hand resting on the wand at her waistband.

"It's me," came a low voice. She heard the sound of footsteps coming nearer and then Neville's arms were around her. She held onto him in the dark, her frantic heartbeat gradually slowing.

"_Lumos_," came a voice from the other side of the room.

Hannah released him as Augusta hobbled over to where they were standing. Neville waited uncertainly. "I – I'm sorry, Gran," he mumbled. She grabbed his shoulders as if to shake him, then enfolded him in a brisk hug.

"Get the kettle on, Hannah love."


	14. Hands' Intertwining

The following morning, as Hannah was getting ready for work, Neville confided his suspicions. The night before it had taken over an hour to answer all of Gran's questions, fired at him between mouthfuls as he steadily ate his way through two large helpings of spaghetti bolognaise. Hannah had remained almost silent, eyes wide and scared as he described what had happened with the lorry driver. This morning she looked tired, but calmer than she had since before her father had disappeared.

Now with Gran noisily reading the paper, clearly impatient for Hannah to leave, he hurriedly described the purple plastic toy he'd seen on the bloke's kitchen table. "Your boss is mixed up in all this," he finished. "I bet he is."

Hannah had listened to his concerns with every appearance of attention. She shook her head. "Neville, you don't know him. There's no way Mr Perkins could have done that job for so long if he hated Muggles. Besides, don't you think I'd be able to tell?"

"You said he didn't want to investigate the other one when it was first reported, didn't you?"

Hannah nodded reluctantly. "Yes, but that was because he didn't know what it was. We're supposed to tread carefully with objects that might be dangerous."

"What if it was because he knew exactly what he'd find? Maybe it was his all along. How else could it have ended up in that house, if he hadn't taken it there?"

"It's probably a complete coincidence. Those toys are really common at this time of year." He looked at her stubbornly. "Your Uncle Arnie seemed to think so," she said defensively, sitting on the rug to do up the buckle on her sandal. He was momentarily distracted by a pale length of calf. His eyes followed it until it disappeared into shadow under her flowery print skirt. "The one that had been tampered with went to Auror Headquarters to have the curses lifted," Hannah said decisively, inviting no further discussion, as she got to her feet again.

Behind her newspaper, Gran gave a small, derisive snort.

"You mean, that's where he _said_ it went." Neville prepared to have his head bitten off, as he tentatively put into words the unease that had been growing within him for a while. "I'm not sure you should go to the Ministry until we know it's safe."

Instead of getting angry, Hannah looked troubled. "It's my job, Neville. What would you have me do? I don't want to argue with you about this. I've told you before, I trust him."

"But – "

His grandmother interrupted. "The girl's got a head on her shoulders, Neville. Leave her be."

He was silenced. Hannah gave an apologetic smile, and paused on her way to the fireplace. She was carrying the glass from the traffic light, still in its plastic bag. At least she was planning to drop_that_ off with Arthur Weasley, he reflected, rather than handing it over to her boss. Determinedly, Hannah reached up and put her arms around his neck, looking him straight in the eye. Neville glanced round to check Gran's reaction to this unselfconscious public display, but she was still reading _The Daily Prophet_, frowning deeply. Blushing, Neville bent his head to give Hannah a goodbye kiss.

When she'd gone, Gran got up and threw the newspaper into the kindling basket. "Abominable rag. I'm cancelling my subscription, for good this time." He glanced at the headline. '_Isle of Man: two dozen arrests. Suspects detained indefinitely.'_

"Hannah thinks we should get a Muggle paper as well as a wizarding one," he volunteered.

"Really?" his grandmother said dryly.

"She says it gives a wider p – perspective. Harry Potter told me Professor Dumbledore used to read them _all_."

"Oh?" His grandmother's sceptical expression faded into surprise, tinged with approbation. "Well, if Albus Dumbledore thought we ought to be keeping our eye on what they're saying … Hmm, perhaps I'll raise it at the next meeting." She was waiting by the living-room door, holding it open impatiently. "Come along, Neville. I've been waiting two days to get your signature on this contract."

His heart beating faster, he followed her into the dining-room. Spread over the table was a large scroll, covered from head to foot in elaborate script. At the bottom, there was space for three signatures. His godfather's and his grandmother's had been filled in and the letters were glowing faintly.

"Now, you understand what is going to happen don't you?" He nodded. His heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest and speech was impossible. "As soon as you sign, the contract will be sealed and the spells broken."

He had to do this – no, he _wanted_ to. Neville lifted the quill that was ready for him. He signed the parchment with care, managing to avoid making all but one small blot.

"This is an important moment, Neville." To his astonishment, Gran pulled her handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed briskly at her eyes. He watched as his signature began to glow with the others and the writing on the parchment slowly began to change. Finally the text stopped moving and he leant forward to read what was now written.

_We, the undersigned, agree that the enchantments on Hill House are henceforth lifted and that the right of habitation passes from Frank and Alice Longbottom, to their only son, Neville Longbottom, on the occasion of his seventeenth birthday. The variation of the lease entitles the tenant to enter and occupy said house but not sell, let or otherwise dispose of the property, or fixtures and fittings, until such time as full legal possession passes. This will take place in the event of the deaths of the former owners, in accordance with magical law. _

_This contract enacted by Richard Davies, in the presence of Roger Davies, Partners, Davies and Davies Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, London. _

"There you are then," said his grandmother. "You'd best go and have a look at the place. Check it's still there."

"Gran …" Neville turned to her. "Are you sure?"

"Great heavens, Neville, you should be able to tell when I'm joshing you by now. Of course it'll still be there."

He hung his head. He hadn't meant that. His gran seemed to realise because her voice softened slightly as she spoke again. "Yes, I'm sure. It's what Frank would have wanted, and your mother too." She lifted his chin and looked at him penetratingly. "Don't fret about it, Neville. You're a grown man now, and ready for the responsibility."

"I know." Neville swallowed. It was still hard to talk. "It's just …" _Huge_. He was excited, but also scared at the prospect of what he might find at the house where he'd come into the world. He'd lived there for only a few short weeks. His grandmother's was the only home he'd ever known. What would _this_ be? He'd tried to imagine so many times and failed. But, he reminded himself, there was one thing it would mean. Something more than a new silver knife, something as important as a wand that was his alone. In past years, during the summer holidays, Neville had always been perfectly happy with his room, his garden and the surrounding countryside. The last few weeks had changed things, and he knew the lack of privacy bothered Hannah more than it did him. All of a sudden, he found himself eager to go and find his parents' – his own – old house.

"Make sure you invite me up sometime. I'd like to see it again. Go on, be off with you."

"Thanks Gran." Neville hugged her quickly, then ran to put on his walking boots and get Trevor.

* * *

A few minutes after Neville had left the house, Augusta was surprised to hear a noise coming from the fireplace. She dried her hands and went through into the living-room, wand out. It was Hannah's voice, calling her name. "Can I come back through, please, Augusta?" she asked.

"Back already?" What a nuisance. She'd been looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet after all the commotion of the last few days. She re-opened the Floo connection for an arrival, almost fluffing the incantation in her haste.

"I've been given some time off," Hannah said despondently, as she stepped out onto the rug.

"Without notice or an explanation?" She didn't wait to hear if there was one, scandalised but unsurprised at the Ministry's lackadaisical ways. "I hope they're still paying you." A thought struck her. Perhaps her longed-for quiet day needn't be given up for lost after all. "Run along." She pointed her wand. Both the door to the living-room and the front door flew open. "You'll catch him if you hurry."

Hannah dropped her rucksack and dashed to the front door. Neville was just in sight, rounding the bend that led into the woods. "I'll need to change my shoes," she cried. "Oh! Where did I put them?"

"Don't flap, young lady," said Augusta disapprovingly. "_Accio, boots!_" A moment later she was watching Hannah tear off down the driveway in the direction Neville had gone. It was a relief to know where the two of them were headed, even if her grandson had just been handed the literal key of the door. She chuckled at her raciness, wishing Griselda were here to share the joke. There would be gossip to weather at the meeting next week, but she'd stick to her guns. The boy could do worse. As she turned to go back inside, she nearly tripped over Hannah's cat, winding sinuously around her ankles. "Dratted animal," she snapped, bending stiffly to pick Zophy up. "Come on then, cupboard love. Let's see what's in the pantry."

* * *

Neville was running, doing his best not to bump Trevor up and down too hard and failing dismally. His long-suffering pet appeared to realise that now wasn't the time to play up, and didn't try to leap out of his master's hands. Neville pounded through the wood surrounding the house and broke out of the trees into the fields beyond. Finally, he slowed, panting. He gazed up at the skyline, struggling to make out any change to the familiar sight of the Hill sticking up like a jagged tooth. He was still too far away.

He took the lower slopes at a steadier pace, for which he could sense his toad was profoundly grateful. Breathing hard, Neville trudged upwards, thankful that it was a cool day and he wasn't wearing a heavy cagoule this time.

* * *

The rise ahead was steep, with rocks set into the slope at intervals to form rough steps. Hannah pushed herself up the last one with her hand on her knee for purchase and paused, leaning over to get her breath back. She hadn't had time to find socks and her walking boots were digging into her shins. She pushed hair off her damp forehead and looked up. She was standing on a roughly level platform that stretched out in front of her for a short distance, before the gradient increased again for the final ascent to the summit. A glade of trees that she didn't remember lay directly in front of her. Neville was standing in an arch made by two oak trees, motionless. She waited, unwilling to disturb his silent contemplation. However, it seemed he'd heard her approach, because after a moment he turned. "Hannah. I hoped it was you. How did you get here?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Come and see."

She walked forward and stood beside him. "Whose is it?" she asked, puzzled. The compact house was made of York stone. A low brick wall surrounded a small, neat front garden. Through the centre, a tiled path bordered by white stones led up to a blue front door. "I don't understand. Didn't we come this way last time?"

Neville nodded. "We passed close by, but we wouldn't have noticed it. It's been here all along and this is the first time I've ever seen it."

"It's lovely. Does someone you know live here?"

He grinned. "Not yet." He took her hand, and with the other pushed open the wooden gate. When they reached the front door, he drew his wand.

"Are we going in?" Hannah thought she was beginning to guess.

"_Alohomora!_" The door swung open as if to greet them.

"It's yours?"

"That's right. Go on in."

"No. You first," she said, giving him a gentle push.

The little front room smelled of furniture polish and of the lilies that were sitting in a china vase on the mantelpiece. The house seemed fresh and lived-in, not at all as though it had lain undisturbed for seventeen years. "It's beautiful," said Hannah, sitting down on the squashy sofa. "But – strange. It's like they were here only yesterday."

"Gran told me Mum and Dad designed it themselves. They saved up their bonuses and Mum's parents helped too."

"I've never heard you talk about your other grandparents."

Neville shrugged. "They lived in Ireland. They died soon after the – the attack. Mum was their only child. I don't remember them." He was roaming around the room, looking into cupboards and examining the pictures on the walls. He seemed eager to tell her all about his parents' house.

"Grandad managed the build, Gran told me. He knew all about land." His voice was proud. "He identified the best magical site left in the county and got them to build in all kinds of …" Neville hesitated. "S – Sustainable spells. All the newest ideas. Self-regulating Concealment Charms so you don't have to keep renewing them, things like that. Of course, Mum and Dad added extra protection when they went away. Security and Surveillance spells against intruders and Preservation ones if they were going to be away for more than few days."

"Didn't they live here all the time?"

"Not for very long. They lived with Gran and Grandad after they got married, while the house was being built. I was born here, upstairs in their room, three weeks after they moved in. They couldn't stay. Gran said we all had to move, when I was really tiny, but Dad would never tell her why. It makes her sad – she says he promised he would when it was safe and now she'll never know the whole story."

"That is sad." Poor Augusta. Hannah gazed around the room, taking in the clean and uncluttered living and dining area, open plan to the small but well-equipped kitchen. It was lovely to see Neville so animated. She pressed her advantage. "W – would you tell me what they were like – before? Only if you want to, of course. I'd love to hear more about your parents. They sound like amazing people."

Neville's ears went pink. "They were," he said with quiet pride, sitting next to her on the sofa. "I can tell you what Gran told me." He paused for a moment. "I'm not sure why exactly, but during the last war they were advised to go into hiding and use a Secret-Keeper. Do you know how that works?" Hannah shook her head. Neville explained the Fidelius Charm to her.

"Wow," she said inadequately.

"They were Aurors, you know." Neville held his head high as he said it. He'd told her that before, but Hannah didn't remind him of it. "They didn't want to hide, and said no. They were totally committed to their work, Gran says, even though they were helping Professor Dumbledore fight You-Know-Who in secret at the same time. Dad told her having a Secret-Keeper is always a weak link in the chain because they can be compromised or killed. She said they insisted on being allowed to keep fighting, and rely on their own ability to protect themselves."

"And you," Hannah said softly.

"I suppose so," said Neville, as though that hadn't occurred to him, or wasn't important. "So, we moved around. We would've moved back when it was all over except … they didn't get away the last time." He answered her unasked question. "I – I wasn't with them."

Hannah said nothing, waiting for Neville to continue if he wanted to. He swung his feet up onto the sofa and lay back with his head resting in her lap. She took the opportunity to stroke the thick, straight hair that smelled of thyme and mint, and always faintly of earth, from pushing his fingers through it after he'd been '_grubbing in the dirt_', as Augusta called it. Neville shut his eyes and began to speak again.

"Mum was back at the Ministry, a couple of days a week. She was just doing desk work until she could retake all her tests. Aurors have to update every six months, you see, and she'd been off for a year with me. So I was being looked after."

"Where?"

"It was the Ministry nursery. Gran hated it, but it was the only place Mum trusted I'd be safe. It was a few minutes walk from her office. We walked past it on our way to Diagon Alley actually."

"You should've said."

"I didn't think it was safe to stop," he mumbled. Face burning, Hannah was reminded of how naïve she'd been that day, and was glad that Neville's eyes were still closed.

"You don't have to tell me any more if you don't want to. I hope you don't think I'm being nosy?"

His eyes flew open. "Of course I don't," he said, frowning slightly. "I think it's important for you to know as much as possible, don't you?"

"Well, yes." It wasn't the sort of thing Neville normally came out with and Hannah was torn between pleasure and confusion. Unable to hide behind her hair – from his prone position, she reflected wryly, Neville could probably see straight up her nostrils – Hannah found herself caught by his serious gaze. "I – I want us to know each other as well as we can," she mumbled in her turn.

"I didn't mean that."

"Oh." Now she felt _really_ stupid. Neville didn't seem to notice her embarrassment.

"It's not as though you were born to it, like me. You need to hear about – about what can happen, so you can be safe. You have to be able to protect yourself."

Susie, she remembered, had often said the same thing. Hannah bent her head and kissed Neville's cheek, slightly roughened by day-old stubble. She wondered if she could tell him how much she loved him. Soon, she decided. "Go on with what you were telling me."

"It was the week everyone was celebrating because You-Know-Who had gone. No one was doing any work. Dad came back from his mission early. He didn't want to, but his new partner was work shy, Gran said." Neville sounded defensive, and Hannah nodded in silent reassurance. "They decided to walk and fetch me from the nursery instead of Apparating. That's when they were captured."

"By the Death Eaters." Her voice was hardly above a whisper.

Neville nodded. "It would never have happened, Gran says, if there hadn't been so many people running about acting foolishly." He looked angry now, and his voice was bewildered. "They must have sneaked up on them."

Hannah's chest was tight with unshed tears. There was no way she would let them fall. At that moment, Neville wasn't the strong, brave Gryffindor she loved, but the frightened, confused child she'd never known. She hit upon a comforting fact. "Didn't you tell me before that they were outnumbered?" Neville nodded, still looking upset. After a moment, she asked, "Were they injured?" Somehow, she had the idea that she had to get him to keep talking. She spoke quickly to minimise the pain, like ripping off a sticking plaster. "I – I mean physically?"

"You know what the Cruciatus Curse is like, don't you? Y – you had that lesson …" Neville stopped.

Hannah nodded mutely, remembering how she'd almost thrown up.

"There wasn't a mark on them, except from the ropes." He paused, then went on, his eyes now squeezed tightly shut. "And Mum had lost her shoes and her feet were all messed up from some broken glass on the ground. They weren't found until hours afterwards. They'd been driven into a garden near the British Museum and locked in, and their wands chucked into the shrubbery. There was no way out and they were too far gone to call out for help. If somebody had got to them earlier …" His voice trailed off.

"They might have been able to reverse the damage?"

Neville no longer sounded forlorn but frustrated. "That's what Gran told me the Healers said." He shrugged and turned his face away. "I dunno if it's true. They'd been tortured longer than anyone St. Mungo's had ever treated before."

Hannah wondered if it was what Augusta wanted to believe, needing someone convenient to blame. The Death Eaters had been captured and sentenced, but it hadn't brought her son to life and health again, or given her baby grandson back his mother. She realised with surprise that she was beginning to admire the hard, battle-scarred old witch for simply surviving – and for how, in the midst of her grief, despite her shortcomings, Augusta had managed to rear that child to become a brave, loving and considerate young man.

She came to a sudden decision. "Neville?"

"Mmm?" he replied. His attention had drifted away and he was staring out of the window to the patchwork of fields and villages far below them.

"I want us to stop what we've been doing." Neville came back to the here and now. What was Hannah saying? He focused on her face staring down at him. "I don't want to waste more time trying to find out about Mum's accident."

_Oh. _He'd thought she meant something quite different. Hold on though, what she'd said didn't make any sense. "We can't stop," he objected. "It's out of our hands now, Hannah."

"And that's where it should stay."

"I don't get it." He was starting to feel angry at her defeatism. "What if the Ministry tries to let it drop? Are you just going to let them? You've worked so hard."

"It doesn't matter. You've already risked too much." She sounded as adamant as she had that morning on her way into work. In fact, why wasn't she _at_ work? Had something happened?

He sat up, swinging his legs down until they met the floor, and prepared to protest further. Hannah held up a hand. "Wait. Listen to me for a minute. What difference can it make now? My mum is gone. She's _dead_ Neville, and I have to learn to accept it. I've been blaming Dad for not letting go of the past and I'm just as bad." She stood and began pacing the floor. Neville watched her in silence. It felt like something important was happening.

"Your parents – the way they suffered …" she began, as though preparing for a speech.

"And your mum," he said softly. She flapped her hands as though that wasn't important.

"It could happen to anyone. Things are just as bad now – worse even."

Neville found himself tempted to interrupt with '_Tell me something I don't know_', but he held his peace.

"We might not have long. In a few weeks time, you'll be going back to school." Hannah held up her hand again. "Yes, you _will_. It might be the last time we see each other. This could be the only time we have. Let's not waste any more of it."

"Wh – what do you mean?" His heart was suddenly pounding very fast. Hannah moved back to the sofa and held out her hands. He pulled her gently down so that they were sitting face to face.

"Do I have to spell it out?" she said irritably. He felt an irresistible grin spread across his face. "What's so funny?" Hannah's face was very red.

"Nothing. Honestly. It's just …" He began to laugh, then stopped himself hurriedly. "I had this masterplan. How I was going to lure you up here and not let you leave."

"Oh, for goodness sake, Neville." He grinned again as Hannah slowly began to giggle.

"You're not cross with me then?"

"Don't be daft. It's not as though I don't know the way your mind works." She shoved him playfully with her shoulder. "Besides …"

"What?" His heart was pounding again as he put his arms around her waist. Hannah laughed up at him.

"Since when have you had to lure me anywhere?"

* * *

Hannah prowled around downstairs with Trevor hopping along behind her. Neville had told her to make herself at home and look around, while he went back to his gran's to beg for provisions for the rest of the day. She filled the kettle and set it to boil on the cooker. The burners were state of the art compared to Augusta's ancient stove. The flames she conjured grew steadily brighter and hotter with almost no effort on her part, then settled down to blaze with a fierce roar. Hannah opened the kitchen window and the front door to get a through draught.

A steep staircase began behind a door in the far corner of the living-room. Hannah went to the foot of the stairs and looked up cautiously. Would it be nosy? It couldn't hurt, she decided. Standing on the tiny landing, she wondered which of the three doors leading off it she should open first. The bathroom was clean and modern and there was a baby bath hanging from a hook on the wall. Hannah's breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she backed out and paused for a second with her hand on the second door.

The tiny room contained a cot but the shelves were empty. A soft rug covered the polished floorboards and a rocking chair with a big cushion on it stood in one corner. Brightly coloured pictures of Puffskeins, Kneazles and Welsh Green dragons were painted directly onto white plastered walls. Hannah felt a squeezing around her heart again, and she almost went back downstairs without seeing what was behind the final door. However, curiosity got the better of her.

It was just a bedroom but it had been left as though its occupants expected to return any moment. The bed was made up and the doors of the wardrobe stood open, as if someone had packed in a hurry. Photographs stood on the bedside cabinet. She picked one of them up. A round-faced woman in a nightdress smiled sleepily up from the bed Hannah was standing beside, a new-born baby nestled in the crook of her arm. As she looked at the photo, Neville's mother lifted his hand and made it wave.

The kettle whistled from downstairs and Hannah left the room, closing the door carefully behind her. She was pouring milk into two mugs with the same pattern as those in Augusta's kitchen when Neville arrived back. He had Apparated this time, and wasn't out of breath. "Look – she's done us proud."

"Wow," said Hannah, peering into the large basket. "Ginger cake, brilliant."

"And just look at _this_!"

"Butterbeer. And what's this bottle – _wine?_ Augusta never gave you that!"

Neville looked sheepish. "No, I nicked it." Hannah looked disapproving. "But it's the one Aunt Enid brought to the party and I reckon she _owes_ us."

"Did your gran ask when we'd be home?"

"I told her not to wait up."

"Neville! You didn't."

Hannah could see she wasn't going to get a serious answer out of him. She cut two thick slices of cake and put them on plates. "I'm going to look at the garden." She opened the back door awkwardly, burdened with her plate and bottle of Butterbeer.

"I'll be out in a minute."

The back garden was surprisingly large. The lawn sloping steeply up towards the summit of the Hill was almost up to her waist in places, despite the scorching weather of the last few weeks. Hannah waded over to a stone bench, where she sat down and removed her heavy boots, wiggling her toes in the cool, damp comfort of the long grass. Behind her, drowsy bumble bees feasted on a huge Flutterby bush that had been growing unchecked for nearly seventeen years.

She'd drunk her tea and finished the cake ten minutes before Neville emerged from the house. His face was pale and he was carrying a photograph. He joined her on the bench. "Did you go upstairs?" he asked. She nodded, speechless.

"It's nice, isn't it?" He held the photo out to her.

"It's beautiful." She put an arm around him and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Gran's got a few from when I was little but most of them were destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

"Yes. They stopped at the flat Mum and Dad were renting before going looking for them, didn't I say?" Hannah shivered. It seemed to her that Neville had only narrowly escaped a similar, or worse, fate as his parents. She remembered how he had told her that two of the culprits were free again.

"Do you ever think they might come l – looking again, for you I mean?"

Neville thought back to the Department of Mysteries. In his mind's eye he could see, with the clarity of the photograph he was holding, Bellatrix Lestrange's face, alight with glee as she put the Cruciatus curse on him. For a year, he'd almost hoped she would seek him out. He'd dreamed of capturing her, or dying in the attempt. Nothing else had seemed important. Now, the truth of his godfather's words hit him. If the Death Eaters and the master they served could be defeated … whatever small part he might be allowed to play, he wanted a life at the end of it. For that, he had to do his best to keep himself whole, and not just for the sake of his own skin. Neville shrugged. Hannah's question haunted his dreams every night, but nothing he could say would change the future. She didn't press the matter.

They stayed in the garden most of the afternoon. He kept making new discoveries and finding things to attend to, filling his head with plans. Trevor found himself a shady spot by a tiny pond that had dried out completely. As Neville looked into it, a small trickle of water began to well up from between two stones on the bottom. "Hannah! Come and look. I think it's an Amaranthine Spring."

She came and stood beside him. "I thought those things were just a legend."

"It started up again as soon as I looked into it. I'd heard they were a feature of the landscape in these parts but I've never seen one. There's one in the Forbidden Forest – Professor Sprout told me about it." He crouched down to touch a dry and withered tendril that before his eyes was turning green and bursting into flower as the water reached its base. "They're for Invisibility and Protection. No wonder this house was so well-hidden. It means anything will grow in this garden, as long as there's someone watching over it." He leapt over the pond, which was already six inches deep. "I wondered why there were so many monocarps thriving in this corner. I could plant out my_mimbulus mimbletonia _at last."

"How lovely," said Hannah. She sounded a little bored.

"Wow!" He couldn't believe his luck. "Look, Hannah, a Bubotuber rhizome that's spread … That almost _never_ happens." He knelt down to have a closer look. "Gran's going to have a field day."

"No thanks – don't _prod_ it, Neville!" cried Hannah. He came to his senses. It wouldn't do to risk horrible, painful boils, not today.

As the shadows lengthened, they went back into the house. A strange formality had gripped them. Working in polite and silent cooperation, they set the table for dinner. Hannah found a corkscrew in a drawer while Neville unpacked the basket. When the food was eaten, they moved to the sofa. For some reason, Hannah sat down at the opposite end.

"This is a sofa bed you know," she observed.

"Good," replied Neville. "I wasn't looking forward to lying on the floor." He realised that over the course of the afternoon, they'd come to an unspoken agreement that upstairs was out of bounds, except to use the loo. He was glad Hannah understood that he wasn't ready to deal with the stuff he'd found there. Sometime soon, he'd come back, maybe with Gran, and they'd sort out what was left of his parents' things. But he wasn't going to think about it now.

"There are sheets and blankets in that cupboard in the alcove." Her eyes were big and scared in the almost-darkness of the living-room.

"Fine. Look, Hannah, we don't have to stay." He offered her a way out, unsure whether it was really he who wanted one. "Say the word and we'll go back now."

"What _did _Augusta say when you told her …"

"I didn't tell her we were staying here." When Hannah looked impatient, he added, "She didn't ask." Her hands were knotted in her lap. "Come over here," he said.

Her mouth tasted different, from the wine they'd shared. She whispered into his neck. "I'm nervous."

"We don't have to do anything."

"I know," said Hannah, but she gave him a small grin. He wondered what it meant. "Did you bring my toothbrush back with you, like I asked?" He went and got it from his jacket.

"You go upstairs," he said. "I'll sort things out down here." Clumsily, he lit some candles they'd found in the cupboard under the sink and stuck them on saucers around the room. The sun had almost set, so he went to close the curtains. For a moment, Neville stood looking out at the twinkling lights of the village far below, then turned and surveyed the neat little dwelling. It felt _right_ to be here, he realised with surprise and deep satisfaction. He turned his attention to the sofa. By the time he heard Hannah's footsteps on the stairs, the bed was unfolded and made up with an odd assortment of blankets.

"I didn't – " she said, gesturing faintly at herself, standing in front of him still fully dressed.

"No, of course not!" he answered awkwardly. "I never meant you to. I'll go first." He sat down on the edge of the bed and stripped off his jeans, socks and t-shirt. "Um," he said. Hannah giggled nervously.

"Yes, stop there for now. In fact, can I borrow …?"

He handed her his t-shirt. Looking far more relaxed, Hannah turned away and began to unbutton the shirt she wore for work. Neville stared, transfixed, as she slipped it off her shoulders and pulled the t-shirt over her head. It fell to the middle of her thighs. She was leaving her bra on. He realised it was time to get into bed and hide under the blankets. He shuffled over to the other side, making room for Hannah, who had now dropped her skirt and was stepping out of it, fussily folding it and placing it on the back of a chair. Was she stalling for time? No, he realised as she finally turned round. She was smiling, seemingly in no hurry as she stepped slowly towards him.

"Well, here we are," she said, as she slid into bed next to him.

"Here we are," Neville echoed stupidly. He didn't trust himself not to say something completely wrong and break the mood. They lay side by side facing each other. Hannah's mouth was very close to his. He could smell toothpaste now, as well as the camomile shampoo she used on her hair. There was a tiny intake of breath.

"I have to tell you something."_Oh God_, he thought. Please don't let it be, '_I've changed my mind'_.

"What?"

"Your gran."

"Er – ?" What was she _doing_ mentioning Gran to him – now?

"I think she thinks we're already – um."

Neville's brain was working very slowly. That was ridiculous. Wasn't it? He'd told Gran they were going up to the summit to watch the sun go down with a picnic. "I'm sure she doesn't," he said firmly.

"No, she really does." Hannah reported the excruciating conversation she'd had with Augusta the week before. As she stumbled over the story, Neville realised with shame and embarrassment that he'd _completely_ forgotten to ask about … _Merlin_. That must have been what Uncle Arnie had been getting at …

"Wh – what are we going to do?"

"I think it's a bit late to be worrying about what your grandmother thinks," Hannah replied crisply.

"N – no, I mean … you know …" Charms were rumoured. Also potions.

"Oh, that." For some reason Hannah sounded relieved. "Don't worry about it, it's fine."

How could it be fine? Did she think he was one of those blokes who pretended it had nothing to do with them? "Tell me, Hannah. I want to know," he said firmly.

"All right, all right," Hannah said testily. "I just didn't feel like going into the boring technicalities. If you must know, it's simple Arithmancy. Anyone can do it, Augusta said. Of course, if you've studied the subject and understand the underlying theory, it's even better. I got an 'E' in my O.W.L." Her tone was complacent. "With her tip-off, I could work it out for myself. So, no need to '_mess around with unnatural remedies'_, as your gran so eloquently put it."

"Are you sure it's …" Neville could hear the doubt in his voice, and thought Hannah probably could too. The mood was well and truly broken now.

"Of course it's _safe_, Neville. It's _magic_, there's spell work involved. It's not crossing your fingers and hoping for the best. Do you really think she would have suggested it if it weren't?"

He really wished she'd stop harping on about Gran. But it seemed Hannah was no longer cross. In fact she was smiling, her eyes full of mischief. "We have over a week at our disposal, which is good because there's something else I haven't told you."

"What's that?"

"I don't have to go back to work until next Monday. Mr Perkins said an emergency's come up, that he'll be busy for several days and it isn't anything I can help with."

Of course, the dodgy git wouldn't have said _what_ emergency, he thought bitterly. Perhaps he'd got wind of the lorry driver in St. Mungo's, and was making a run for it. He pushed the thought away. The last thing he wanted to do right now was let Hannah's boss ruin his evening. His godfather had promised to look into Perkins' activities, and Neville couldn't be happier that Hannah was away from the place for a while. "That's brilliant," he replied. "A whole week to ourselves."

"I know," Hannah's voice had fallen to a whisper again. The mood seemed to be back again. He put his hand on her hip.

"Are you still nervous?" he asked tentatively. Hannah nodded. "That makes two of us then." She smiled.

"Would – would you just hold me for a bit?"

Cuddling. That he could do. He slid his arm around Hannah's back and pulled her towards him. Daringly, he slid his hand under the fabric of her t-shirt and ran his fingers up the supple line of her spine. He felt her shiver and pulled her even closer. She must be able to feel … not that that was anything new, he thought ruefully. He remembered lying intertwined with her all night in his narrow single bed and felt braver.

"Hannah – can I?" He plucked at the strap of her bra. This wasn't new territory either.

"No, you can't." He froze and began to withdraw his hand. "However, you _may_," said Hannah in her best McGonagall voice. He felt her stifle a giggle. She really _was_ nervous. Neville investigated the mechanism. It was still a nightmare. He thought about the first time he'd asked if he could undo it. She'd been in fits by the time he'd succeeded.

"Can I use magic?"

"Not a chance. You'll have to struggle." At that moment, he found the second hook and the elastic snapped open. Neville grinned in triumph and Hannah giggled again. He wasn't doing too badly so far, Neville reflected. Hannah took over, sliding the shoulder straps down and wriggling her arms free. With a swift motion, she pulled the bra out from under the t-shirt and sent it flying across the room. It was Neville's turn to laugh.

"Neat trick." Hannah inclined her head graciously. Then, with a serious expression, she leaned forward and kissed him, sliding her arms under his shoulders and allowing him to pull her on top of him. He was lost.

Five minutes later, the t-shirt was gone, as they fell together in a tangle of arms and legs and lips and hands. Neville paused for a moment to stare down at Hannah, almost in awe. Her bright hair, spread out wantonly, shone against the background of dark blue blankets. So beautiful. She gazed up at him, completely without self-consciousness, and slowly he bent his head to touch and taste the pristine skin of her shoulder with his lips. He moved his mouth down and the sound of Hannah's breathing stopped for a second, before she sighed in a way that made him want to touch_all_ of her, right now, no more waiting. Her leg came up between his and he rocked against it instinctively, unable to stop himself. He'd been here before now, under clothing, in snatched, hurried moments, but to feel the entire length of Hannah's almost naked body pressing against him without restraint was a novel experience. He'd better stop himself, he realised. He traced a path along the ladder of her backbone again, this time down onto white cotton that covered soft roundness. He stroked gently, hardly believing his daring, until he realised she was leaning into his hands, sighing again. He grew more confident.

He tore his attention away from _her_ hands, now touching the hair on his chest and stomach, lightly skating over the still-delicate scar tissue. He kept his concentration on her body rather than his own. It wasn't difficult. Also, he had an idea it was his best chance of acquitting himself respectably, if – when – whatever – happened. It was annoying that her knickers were … _in the way_. He forced himself to be patient, running his hands along the firm, smooth skin of her thighs, back over the material and up her back again and again, hardly registering that she was doing the same to him.

Time passed, secure in the knowledge that there would be no interruptions, no risk of being surprised by a foot on the stairs. When their mouths broke apart momentarily as they shifted position, Neville found Hannah was back on top of him, moving restlessly. Through a haze of sensation, he felt her hands slide to meet his where they rested on her waist. "Sh – shall we …?" she breathed into his ear, brushing the waistband of his boxer shorts. She meant _take everything off_. Neville gulped.

"Merlin, _yes,_" he groaned, taking hold of her waist more firmly and rolling her over onto her back. He slid his fingers under the edge of the thin, white cotton and helped Hannah push the knickers down with hands that trembled. She shoved them out of the way with her foot, an impatient movement that reminded him exactly what it was about her he fancied her so much.

"Sh - shall we, now?" she repeated, as he kicked his legs free of his own underwear. "Let's not wait any longer."

"Are you ready?"

"Mm, feel," she whispered, taking his hand again. _Oh, God. _This wasn't going to last five seconds.

"Hannah …"

"Shh," she interrupted. "It's all right, there'll be time to practise later." Amazingly, he felt reassured. She wanted this – wanted _him_.

_I love you. _The thought came out of nowhere, surprising him. He gazed at Hannah wonderingly. "I love you, Neville," she said softly. She looked as scared as he felt, but her eyes were trusting and her skin was flushed. "Go on, now, please."

_Please_, he echoed to himself,_don't let me hurt her_. He almost collapsed as he moved on top of her, shaking uncontrollably as he struggled to support himself on his elbows. _What now?_ He felt Hannah's small fingers on him, guiding him to the right place – the unbelievably hot, wet place he'd touched for the first time with his fingers only a moment earlier. For a horrible second Neville thought it was all going to be over before it had even begun. What could he think about to distract himself? _Mimbulus mimbletonia_ – that'd do. He recited the name over and over, doing his best to block out everything but the mantra for however many seconds it took. It worked. The moment teetering on the edge of the abyss passed and he allowed his attention to come back to the here and now. He really didn't want to miss any of this.

She gasped, once, as he lowered himself carefully, inch by inch. The world shrank to even fiercer heat and intensity, and Hannah's breath scorching his neck. He pushed forward, then drew back to check her expression, wondering wildly, '_Now?_ _Can I_?' There was no fear in her eyes now. She shifted beneath him, adjusting, rocking gently against him, as he had against her an hour, a day, a lifetime ago. '_I have to',_he thought, as loudly as he could. "_I'm going to._' A whispered, "Go on, it's OK," was the last thing he heard. The world dwindled to nothing and the feeling took him, surging, riding the crest of a wave of sensation that crashed over him so powerfully that he forgot everything.

When Neville became aware of his surroundings again, he found he _had_ collapsed this time, and his whole weight was resting on Hannah. He dragged himself back up onto an elbow, slipping his other arm under her shoulders so as not to break contact. He couldn't bear to let go yet, shiveringly, acutely aware of every inch of her skin against his. At some point in the proceedings, Hannah's legs had moved upwards. When he shifted, she kept them clamped them firmly around his thighs, holding him inside her. A small noise forced its way out of his throat. He recognised the sound, and realised he'd groaned out loud with considerably more volume a minute or so earlier. Hannah's eyes were squeezed tightly closed, and he allowed himself a private grin of triumph, mingled with no small amount of incredulity. Of course, she chose that moment to open her eyes and catch him looking like the cat that got the cream. He kissed her gently, questioningly. "Are you OK?" he asked. A lazy smile that mirrored his own crept over Hannah's face.

"Never better." It sounded like the truth.

"I didn't hurt you?"

"Only a tiny bit. It was worth it." She'd stopped smiling, and was gazing up at him with eyes that shone big and scared again. With a _thunk_, the words she'd said just beforehand dropped into place. He hadn't returned them. What a _dope_.

"Hannah – what you said –"

"It's OK," she interrupted. "I couldn't help myself. You don't have to –"

"Hannah." He held her gaze. "I love you too."

* * *

They were roused from a sleepy daze by a tapping at the window. Hannah snuggled under the blankets, watching as Neville got out of bed and crossed the room to see what it was. She ached, feeling oddly shivery. Everything was new. _Undone_ – the old-fashioned word came to her out of nowhere. Nevertheless, Hannah was indescribably happy, inwardly hugging the memory of what they'd done, replaying Neville's words to her afterwards in her head for comfort. He was always so careful, so thoughtful. In the moment he'd left her, transported to another place entirely, she'd never felt so close, so connected to him. If only … For the first time all day, Hannah felt the familiar twist in her guts. The bravado that had carried her through, allowed her to support Neville and forget about herself throughout this strange, wonderful day, deserted her. Tears pricked her eyelids. She would never get to introduce Neville to her mother, show off her amazing good fortune. Mum would have loved him too, she knew it. A further flash of foreboding struck her, turning her insides to water. What would she do if he ever left her for good? How would she survive? One day had been almost more than she could bear. Resolutely, Hannah pushed the feeling away. They had now, and a whole week together. Time enough.

Neville threw the curtains open. "It's Hebe," he said, undoing the catch and letting Gran's owl inside. The sky outside was now fully dark.

The note read, '_If the two of you aren't planning on sleeping in your own beds tonight, I'd appreciate you letting me know.'_

"Oops," said Hannah. "Do you suppose we're in trouble?" It seemed as though the cat was out of the bag. She couldn't bring herself to care.

"I dunno," replied Neville. "We haven't broken any of her rules, remember? She only said not in her house." He found a quill and a fresh bottle of ink in the sideboard, scribbled '_See you tomorrow, Neville'_ on the parchment and sent Hebe on her way. "She's been acting weird all summer," he wondered aloud, as he jumped back into bed. "First giving me all Dad's love letters to Mum, then giving you the '_talk'_. You'd think she _wanted_ us to."

"You're right," said Hannah. She'd been thinking about this since her argument with Augusta the day before. "She really wants you to be happy. She's proud of you – she told me yesterday." Neville looked dubious.

"Maybe she thinks more bad stuff is going to happen. I won't be so lucky next time, so she might as well let me …" His voice trailed off.

"Make hay?" suggested Hannah. "You're wrong, Neville." It was time, she realised, to give him her other message. "Your gran believes in you. And she isn't the only one. Something else happened after you left yesterday …" As briefly as possible, she relayed Hermione's explanation about the Felix Felicis, and her regret at not having had a chance to tell him herself while he lay recovering in the hospital wing.

"So you see," she concluded, "You were fighting unprotected – or less protected than the others anyway. Hermione felt bad about it and that's why she wanted to see you, to apologise."

Neville lay on his back with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "Are you upset?" she asked.

"No, of course not. Harry did what he had to. He didn't know how many people were going to show up. And I'm OK now."

"I told Hermione you wouldn't be angry," she said a little smugly, comfortable in the knowledge that she'd read him correctly. In a far-away voice, Neville spoke again.

"It makes it better, almost …"

"Because you can stop blaming yourself?" Hannah found she was clenching her jaw, she wanted the right answer so badly. Neville turned his head and gave her the ghost of a smile.

"Yeah, maybe. Would you like a cup of tea?"

No, she decided, she wouldn't. "Drinking tea," she grumbled, scooting over and putting her face very close to Neville's. "It's all you Longbottoms think about." With impressive and exciting swiftness, Hannah found herself sprawled across Neville once again. She sighed with pleasure and dropped her head to taste the slight saltiness of his shoulder.

"No, it bloody isn't," he said. "There's at least half a dozen things I'd rather do, and they don't involve thinking either."


	15. An Uncomfortable Experience

Chapter Fifteen – Unpleasant Revelations

"Where will you be while I'm in there?" Hannah asked. Her voice was tranquil.

"I'm going upstairs to drop off these scones first. Then I thought I'd have a wander, see if that bloke's still here."

"OK, I'll come and find you when they're finished with me."

As they began to ascend the first flight of stairs, Neville gave her a fleeting glance, but Hannah appeared as calm as she had all morning, while they'd helped Gran get the house ready for her Witches for the War Effort meeting. She hadn't mentioned either her mother or father in the last twenty-four hours. True to her word, it was as though the answers she had been seeking with such energy for weeks had ceased to matter.

* * *

When an owl had swooped in the open window of Hill House the day before, carrying a letter summoning Hannah to St. Mungo's for an appointment to assess her 'Magical Amplification Disorder,' she'd merely tutted in annoyance at the interruption. They were lounging on the unmade sofabed eating biscuits, and amusing themselves by teasing Zophy, who had worked herself into a frenzy pouncing on their wiggling toes under the blankets. "Do I _have_to go?" she'd grumbled. "Honestly, Madam Pomfrey's such a busybody. I don't want to go to London this week, I want to stay here with you. I'm on _holiday_."

Neville trod carefully, doing his best to sound sensible and neutral. "You might find out something interesting, like how you can control your magic and not get so many headaches and stuff."

"There's nothing _wrong_ with my magic, as long as I don't let myself get worked up." He smiled inwardly. She'd certainly changed her tune since the beginning of the summer.

"You mean as long as nothing untoward happens," he reminded her gently. "Like someone Disapparating right next to you, f'r instance." Hannah had told him how she'd fainted in front of Hermione. _Mortifying_, she'd called it. He also remembered, even if she pretended not to, her tiredness the day she'd touched the Muggle toy that had been turned into a Dark weapon. Then there was the awful state she'd been in the night they flew back from her house, after she'd almost been sucked into the lethal potion on the floor. "Or as long as you never come into contact with strong magic," he finished.

Hannah heaved a gusty sigh. "I suppose you're right," she said reluctantly. "It says I have to be there at two-thirty."

"It's Thursday tomorrow. Visiting hours. I'll come with you. St. Mungo's can be a bit confusing if you don't know it very well."

"Thank you." She smiled at him gratefully, dropping the letter on the floor. She looked pretty, so he kissed her, which led to other things. With one hand, Neville shoved Zophy onto the floor, who jumped straight back up. "Damn cat," he mumbled, reaching for his wand on the bookshelf next to the sofabed. Without stopping kissing, he opened the back door. Then he broke off, and looked meaningfully at Hannah.

"Zophy, _out_!" she ordered, giggling.

Some time later, as they lay entwined, practically asleep again, there was a knock at the door. Neville leaped up and dashed over to the window. He sneaked a look through a gap in the curtains. Gran was standing outside. As he pulled on his jeans in a great hurry, Hannah vanished upstairs.

"H – Hi, Gran," he said, wrenching the front door open, and trying to sound as though his grandmother dropping in on him in his new place was perfectly normal. He wished he'd had time to find his socks. "Do you want to come in?" He prayed she'd say no, thinking of the dishes and the very dishevelled sofa bed. He didn't hold out much hope. However, Gran appeared to be avoiding his eye.

"I've just come from the village. Mrs Pertwee gave me this." She handed him an envelope addressed to _Miss__Hannah Abbott, care of Mrs Augusta Longbottom, Somewhere near Long Ayton, North Yorkshire_. "It's a good thing her nephew's the postman … and that I helped her with that Boggart she couldn't deal with last week."

"Thanks, Gran. Hannah's just …" He gestured vaguely, feeling the back of his neck grow hot.

"Yes, well, I won't come in now. Can't stop." _Thank Merlin_. "I'll see you both this afternoon, shall I?"

He nodded hastily, feeling guilty that he hadn't been home for nearly three days, watching as she Disapparated with a fierce expression of concentrated effort. He hoped she'd be all right, knowing how difficult she found it these days.

Hannah came running downstairs, fully dressed. "Oh. Have I missed her?"

"For now. We should really go back soon for a proper visit."

"I've been telling you that for the last two days."

"She came to give you this. I think it might be from …" He didn't finish the sentence, in case he was wrong. Hannah took the envelope, and frowned.

"Yes, it's from Dad all right." She ripped open the cheap paper carelessly, and began to scan the single, sparsely-written sheet. For a bloke so fond of writing letters, Neville thought Mr Abbott might have bothered to spend a few more words to reassure his daughter that he wasn't dead in a ditch somewhere. Hannah began to read fragments, in a clipped and angry voice. "Says he's fine, blah blah. Doesn't want me to worry, et cetera."

_Bit late for that_, he said to himself, filled with righteous anger on her behalf.

"He says he's staying at a hotel in … _the Shetland Islands?_ But he hasn't got any …"

"What?" asked Neville.

"Money." Her voice was grim. "Hang on a minute." She crossed the room and picked up her blue rucksack. She looked in the front pocket. "I knew it. He took my cashpoint card."

"What's that?"

"It's for getting money out of my bank account. There was a bit left in there from my job at the supermarket. All I had – all _we_ had, in fact. He's done this before."

"What about your money from the Ministry?"

"I haven't had a chance to change any of it, thank goodness. I was putting it off. I've never been to Gringotts without Mum and Dad. No, it's the mortgage on the house I'm worried about."

"We'll change some on our way to St. Mungo's this afternoon, if you like."

"Thanks, Neville. I can pay it straight into the building society so he can't get his hands on it."

"Hang on though … if you haven't been to Gringotts, where have you been putting all your salary?"

"They – they've been paying me by cheque because I don't have an account of my own." She looked embarrassed.

"But you've had Galleons. You bought those robes, and you've been giving Gran housekeeping."

"I – I was cashing the cheques in my lunch hour."

"Where from?"

"Someone at work recommended a place called Borgin and Burkes."

"You went into _Knockturn Alley_?" He felt his blood run cold at the thought of it.

"N – no. I was scared, so I tried Weasleys Wizard Wheezes first. They were quite friendly. I don't think I got a very good rate though. It's all in here." She held open her bag to reveal a smallish pile of wizard money rattling around loose in the bottom.

"Why didn't you _say_?" His voice came out louder than he intended it. "I'd have come to the bank with you."

"I felt stupid. Wanted to sort it out on my own." She looked like she might be about to cry, and he felt horrible for nearly losing his temper. But of all the stubborn, stupid things to do. _Anything_ could have happened. As for those Weasleys … Neville frowned, angry again. Never mind that they were rolling in it these days, he was willing to bet they'd found it really funny to fleece someone out of their hard-earned Galleons.

As his anger died away, he realised it wasn't Hannah's fault, understanding why she'd wanted to manage her finances herself, after living in someone else's house all summer. She was still standing there, holding the almost-empty bag limply in one hand. The old, shuttered look – the one he hadn't seen since that afternoon up on the Hill – was back, but he wasn't so afraid of it now. He pulled the rucksack gently out of her hand and placed it on the floor. "You don't have to do _everything_ on your own anymore, you know," he said more quietly. "I'll help you open an account. The goblins are a bit intimidating, but there's nothing to it really. We'd better go another day though. It'll take a bit longer than just changing money."

It would kill two birds with one stone. There was no point putting it off any longer. He needed to make a trip to Gringotts himself, to arrange access to Mum and Dad's vault. Gran had told him he had to sort it out on his own. Now he was of age, he had to take over dealing with their pensions. All but a few Sickles and Knuts a month went directly to St. Mungo's for their care. Gran had always given him a decent allowance out of her own pocket, as well as feeding, clothing and putting a roof over his head. He'd found out on his birthday that she'd left the remainder from the pensions in the bank to accumulate. "With compound interest, there should be a tidy little sum in there for you," she'd told him. "You'll be needing it now you're going to be looking after that house and garden." Neville had other plans for the money. Maybe if there was a bit left over, he could get Hannah a present too.

"Thanks, Neville." Cheerful again, Hannah flung herself across the sofabed, picking up the letter to St. Mungo's from the floor on the far side. He took the opportunity to collapse back onto the bed next to her. As she hauled herself up to a sitting position, he captured her around the waist. There was time for one last cuddle before getting on with the day. They lay back, Hannah's head resting in the crook of his arm. Holding the parchment close enough to tickle his nose, she said, "It says I can Floo straight in because I have an appointment."

"Fine, I'll meet you in Reception. By the way, have you booked your Apparition test yet?"

"_No_."

"Sorry," he said penitently. "I didn't realise you were worried about it. You've been doing so well these past couple of days."

Hannah turned her face into his armpit. "It's me who should apologise," she mumbled. She looked up again. "I didn't mean to snap. It's just … I want to have a few proper lessons first, and I can't afford it. I'll have to save up."

"Oh." Now he really _was_ sorry. A thought struck him. "Why don't I pay for them?"

Hannah looked troubled. "No, Neville. Thank you, but it's not your problem."

He knew that. Her independent streak again. He'd have to go a bit slower. It had only begun to dawn on him in the last few weeks what turning seventeen really meant. Of course, like anyone his age, he'd anticipated gaining access to his own Gringott's vault with eagerness. Gran had never really understood about buying stuff for the garden at the right time of year. Other than that, he'd never bothered thinking about it much. Then he'd met Hannah, and life ahead of him had opened up previously undreamt-of possibilities.

The house for one thing. Even if she wanted to, Gran couldn't stop him spending all his spare time right here _with his girlfriend_ … So far, his grandmother seemed happy to turn a blind eye, a piece of luck he still didn't quite believe, but wasn't about to start questioning. He hadn't done anything to rock the boat, going back every afternoon to maintain the protective spells around the old house and do a bit of work in the garden. He didn't want to be inconsiderate. Hannah wouldn't allow it anyway, finally insisting that they go back today and stay overnight at 'the big house', as she now called it, which he found endearing, if hardly accurate. That way, she'd said bossily, they could be up early tomorrow morning to help with all the extra chores for Gran's meeting.

"The lessons could be a late birthday present," he argued, rather cunningly he thought.

"Very late," said Hannah dryly. "My birthday's in April."

"It just seems stupid, when I've got all this ..." He gestured vaguely, taking in the rumpled blankets, last night's dishes sitting on the draining-board waiting to be washed, and the smelly cat food and litter tray on the kitchen floor.

"Oh, yes," said Hannah, laughing at him. "You're a real lord of the manor aren't you? Ow! Stop it, Neville. That _tickles_ …"

* * *

She glanced at the letter in her hand, headed with the St. Mungo's wand and bone emblem, and squinted at the number on the door. She was at the end of a very long corridor in the farthest reaches of the second floor of the hospital. The shining crystal bubbles that had bobbed along in front of her for most of the way had run out at the last corner. Room 287, Chronic Magical Infirmities, read the cracked and discoloured sign. She knocked on the door.

Inside, the office was surprisingly light and spacious. The woman facing her from behind the pale wooden desk looked faintly familiar. Straight brown hair fell to her shoulders, a neat fringe snipped across her brows. Hannah had the feeling that if the woman stood she would tower over her. She wore no motherly Healer robe, instead her green shift and trousers looked more like operating theatre scrubs. Most unnerving were her eyes, almost impossible to see behind large round glasses which glinted strangely, making her expression difficult to read. She regarded Hannah steadily without smiling, for what felt like ages, but in reality was probably no longer than a few seconds. Finally, the woman spoke. "Good afternoon, please sit down. My name is Healer Trelawney. I will be assessing you this afternoon."

Pulling the rickety chair too close in her confusion, Hannah banged her knee painfully on the corner of the desk. That was why the woman seemed familiar. It seemed almost laughable that this immaculate, crisply-starched witch could be related to fussy, fraying around the edges Professor Trelawney. The faintly antiseptic smell emanating across the desk was certainly nothing like the whiff Hannah and Ernie had noticed coming from their former Divination teacher the few times they'd encountered her in the corridor on evening prefect rounds. "Hello," she replied, rubbing her kneecap surreptitiously and trying not to grimace.

"I'd like to begin with you telling me why you are here."

"I – I got a letter …" Hannah ground to a halt, blushing. Didn't the old hag _know_?

"Quite so. You misunderstand me. I'd like to hear in your own words what you understand about your – condition."

"Erm – the school nurse said it's called_Sensitive_." This time, Hannah didn't bother trying to hide her grimace.

"A folk term," said Healer Trelawney disdainfully.

"Sometimes my palms get sweaty when there's a lot of magic flying around. And um, I get these funny pins and needles in my hands. Oh, and sometimes I get dizzy or sort of – er – faint. Headaches."

"Anything else? Emotional stress, feelings of panic or anxiety?"

"No!" Hannah stared at the floor. She could hardly deny it. "At least – "

The Healer waited, without prompting her further.

"Only when my magic goes wrong," Hannah said sullenly. "Or I can tell it's going to."

"You won't have been tested at school, I imagine."

"I – I don't think so."

"It's specialised spellwork. Not something mediwizards and witches are routinely trained in. If you agree, I would like to perform the charm to confirm the diagnosis, although I strongly suspect it's merely a formality in your case. Your symptoms are textbook."

"Is it …?"

"Uncomfortable rather than painful. Still, you will need to put this on." Healer Trelawney handed Hannah a heavy grey robe with an odd texture like cheap velvet. It set her teeth on edge. Reluctantly, she slipped her arms into it, only to find that there were no holes in the ends of the sleeves. She was forced to submit to the Healer buttoning it for her. "I'm going to pull the hood down quite low, although I won't secure it completely, as you're not a child. But you must stay _absolutely still_ while I perform the spell."

Ugh. The hood scratched against her face, clinging to her nostrils as she breathed in and out. "Is this going to take long?" she asked, trying to stop the panic that was rising, clawing at her throat. She wasn't sure how long she'd be able to endure the claustrophobic stuffiness without tearing the hood from her face.

"Almost done."

Hannah could now feel nothing from inside the robes, not even the chair she assumed she was still sitting on. She wasn't numb, rather it was as though her sense of touch had just … stopped working. She trembled, holding herself as still and small as possible, breathing shallowly and praying for it to be over. All of a sudden, there was a jolt to her wand arm that spread upwards with a pressure that snapped her head back painfully. She found herself being pushed by a force greater than she could resist. It wasn't unlike being hit with an Impediment Jinx. Unable to do anything about it, she felt herself slide backwards on the wooden seat, and the chair itself scrape across the tiled floor.

"Keep still!"

"Ow!" she yelled, as pain pierced her neck where the robe wasn't completely closed. Initially, it felt no worse than the snapping of a rubber-band against skin. However, instead of dying away, the pain continued to burn, intensifying until it felt as though the whole of her upper body were on fire. "Help me," she tried to gasp, but couldn't be sure if any sound had come out.

The hood was ripped from her head. "You stupid girl," the Healer snapped. "I told you not to move. Wait."

Hannah could at least see and hear what was happening now. The Healer flicked her wand in a complicated movement and pointed it at Hannah's neck. "_Assuageo_!" Immediately, the pain receded somewhat, leaving only a sharp stinging in its wake. "You will need Murtlap Essence." She went to a cupboard and yanked it open, then whisked back over to the desk and handed Hannah a small bottle. She sat down and began scribbling something in a ledger.

Hannah glowered at her, and dabbed at her throat with a finger to work out the extent of the damage. She could feel a raised welt, as though her skin had really burned. She waited impatiently for the robe to be unbuttoned and then shrugged the horrible thing off her shoulders as quickly as she could.

"Yes, the result is conclusive. Magical Amplification Disorder, Severity Level Three, I would say."

"What does that mean – Level Three? And why do I have this, when nobody else I know has got it?"

"The condition affects Muggle-borns primarily, very occasionally half-bloods. Thus far, it has not been detected in a witch or wizard of pure-blood descent. It is not hereditary, so you don't need to worry about passing it on to any children you might plan to have in the future."

Hannah dismissed the future with a wave of her hand. She was finding it hard to adjust to the idea that her 'condition' could be a severe, long-term problem, now that she was back in the wizarding world. "What about _now_? I'm perfectly all right most of the time. What caused it, and what do I do about it, if anything?"

At these words, the Healer's glasses glinted severely. When she spoke her voice was brusque. "There are competing theories. One is that mental illness in one or other of the parents may be implicit. It's posited that social factors influence the likelihood of susceptible individuals of a particular disposition developing the full-fledged disorder. What limited research there has been – research which determines the current therapeutic approach here at St. Mungo's – points to the most likely explanation being a physical anomaly present from birth. A child is born with the potential for _normal_ magical ability but there exists an … imbalance that causes an alteration to the development path. I am afraid that your condition is chronic. Additionally, a Severity factor of Three denotes a broad spectrum of symptoms at a particularly acute level of sensitivity to atmospheric magic. There is no cure."

"I didn't even know it was an illness," Hannah murmured, reeling. Mrs Marchbanks and Madam Pomfrey had looked at her like she was odd, it was true, but in a _good_ way, as though she were specially talented or something. It had been a nice feeling, one that she had never experienced before. Professor Sprout had always been kind at school, but back then Hannah had never expected to be evaluated as anything more than the student who was good with the little ones, and suffered from 'nerves'.

"Not an illness as such. More of an … impairment."

"Madame Pomfrey told me you'd be able to help me deal with it, control it?"

"Well, yes, that's why you're here isn't it?"

Suddenly hopeful, Hannah looked up. "You mean there are things I can do? Things that will help me …" She faltered. '_Use it_' sounded arrogant somehow. She had a suspicion the woman might laugh at her.

"Yes, of course, there are a number of treatment options. Don't you take anything at present? How have you managed?"

"Oh, I see." That was all she meant. "I hate the Calming Draught. It makes me feel like I'm under the sea. I can't feel anything properly."

"Well, that's the idea really isn't it? Actually, there is an alternative. A potion has come on the market for which you are an ideal candidate. It targets the nerve pathways directly, cutting the capacity for reception of atmospheric magic in half. No drowsiness or physical numbness whatsoever, alongside a precise dulling of the sensitivity. Marvellous really."

It sounded a bit dodgy to her. She hadn't listened for years to Dad complaining about pill-pushing doctors for nothing. "What are the side effects?" she asked bluntly.

"Well, as one would expect, there is the likelihood of an associated reduction of competence and precision in one's spellcasting. Advanced magic is usually out of the question – refined Charm work, complex Transfiguration and so on. And it is a long-term commitment once treatment begins. It can increase severity of the underlying affliction if the potion is later discontinued. But it is highly effective."

"What else won't I be able to do? Will I still be able to fly?"

"I'm afraid not."

"What about Defence … Shield Charms, or a Patronus, for example?"

"_Can_ you produce a Patronus?" the Healer asked, her voice decidedly sceptical.

"That's not really the point, is it? Essentially what you're telling me is that I'll be little better than a Squib."

"That's an exaggeration." The Healer perused Hannah's details on the parchment in front of her. "It says here that you work at the Ministry, in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, is that correct?" Hannah nodded. "Well, there is nothing particularly subtle or precise required _there_. You will be perfectly able to continue in your current job."

"No, thanks."

"I'm sorry?"

"I said no, I don't want to go on that potion. It's not for me. What about the others?" By this stage, she felt little optimism about any 'treatment options' Healer Trelawney might suggest. "Are they all the same as what I take now?"

"The older remedies are in the same family as the Calming Draught, yes."

"Then I'll carry on as I am." She stood up, feeling irritable and almost tearful. Why had she allowed herself to hope she might learn something useful? All she'd had was confirmation of what she already knew, that she was some kind of freak. "Thank you for seeing me," she said stiffly.

She closed the door behind her quietly, then crossed to the other side of the dark corridor. With care, she lifted her right foot and aimed several hard kicks at the wooden panelling. Feelings relieved, she ran her fingers through her hair, which was messed up from being under the protective hood, and made her way back towards the main body of the hospital.

* * *

Neville dropped off the basket Gran had given him with Healer Strout, who cooed over the food in it. "Potato and leek soup, that's your dad's favourite." If Gran could have cooked all her son's food, she would have done. Neville didn't believe his dad had any favourites. Whenever he'd seen him eat anything, it had been with the same lack of expression as he did everything else.

"Yeah – er – there're some scones in there as well."

"Lovely, dear. Augusta never forgets us."

His dad was out of bed, shuffling around in his pyjamas. Early afternoon, between doses, was his liveliest time. "Hi, Dad," Neville said, as he reached the end of the ward. The shuffling stopped for a few seconds, as his dad swung slowly round, pointing with his wand arm. After a few seconds, he lowered it back to a defensive position by his side, and went back to his slow circuit of the ward.

Neville leaned over and kissed his Mum's cheek. She was lying in bed, twisting a bit of string into a complicated, delicately-patterned cat's cradle, her favourite way to pass the time. She smiled without looking at him, but immediately put the string down and reached for the bag which was sitting on top of her bedside cabinet. He took it from her and placed it on the floor. "Not yet, Mum." She smiled again and crossed her arms, settling back on her pillows.

"Staying." She turned her head away, to gaze at the ceiling.

"Yes, I can stay for a bit."

"Nurse?"

"No, Mum, it's Neville. Listen, I've got loads to tell you."

Twenty minutes later he'd finished talking about the house, and how her spells had lasted really well, and that the garden was going to be fine. He broke off his explanation about why he was back to visit so soon after his birthday, noticing that his dad's shuffling in circles had begun to speed up, and he was starting to look angry and disturbed. Neville recognised the signs that the potion was wearing off, and called Healer Strout over. While his attention was distracted, Mum retrieved her bag. He went to stop her again, then realised it was time to go, or he wouldn't have time to check on the lorry driver before Hannah's appointment finished. He didn't think it was a good idea for her to meet the man yet, if it could be avoided. His mother presented her parting gift, a chocolate biscuit this time. From the look of it, it was one she'd saved several weeks ago. Neville thanked her, and she smiled vaguely, patting him on the hand.

When Healer Strout had finished administering his dad's Draught of Peace, he asked where the new Muggle patient was being treated. She was delighted to tell him. "Just along the corridor, love, Hester Truelove Ward. He was being interviewed by one of those Ministry types earlier on. They might have finished with him by now. Poor lamb, he's had them bothering him ever since he got here. Nice young chap, lovely manners. Not like the last Muggle we had under the Imperius Curse. Mind you, he was an extreme case. This one looks like he might make a full recovery."

Neville kissed Mum goodbye. When she showed signs of getting up to follow him, Healer Strout took her arm and placed her firmly back in bed. "Now Alice dear, it's nearly time for your nap. Go on, Neville, you make a dash for it. She'll forget all about running after you as soon as you're out of sight."

"I know." He smiled unhappily and walked quickly out into the corridor.

He lurked outside the Hester Truelove Ward, peering in through the spell-reinforced glass. It looked like the lorry driver _was _still with the man from the Ministry. The patient was sitting up in bed and looked cheerful enough. He hesitated, wondering whether or not to wait when, to his horror, the lorry driver sat up straighter and started waving excitedly. The Ministry wizard looked round in surprise. He cowered, hesitating as he debated whether to make a run for it. The last thing he wanted was to be forced into polite conversation with one of his godfather's underlings from the Obliviation Squad. Too late. Seeing Neville hovering by the door, the wizard beckoned him in.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude," he mumbled, as he reached the bedside. He stared at the tips of his trainers, wishing he hadn't let himself be seen.

"It's you, isn't it? The lad who got me here?" The lorry driver even sounded better. Neville mumbled something vaguely affirmative and stared at the floor. "Sit down, mate. Go on," the man urged.

"Neville? It _is _Neville Longbottom, isn't it?" The wizard who had been interviewing the patient was an elderly man with a shock of white hair. "I've heard a lot about you."

"From my – I mean, from Arnold Peasegood?" asked Neville, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"No, not your godfather, although it was he who told me of your involvement in bringing the young man here for treatment and assigned me to this case. Rather an honour, I must say. My last boss put in a good word for me."

From what he'd gathered from Uncle Arnie's grumbles, the old man's vague and gentle manner seemed a little out of step with the department's usual class of employee. "There was no one else available," the old man continued. "So I was asked to help out with keeping an eye on things. I have had some experience with Muggles, you see."

Neville felt a slow, cold feeling of dread steal over him. It was beginning to dawn on him who the wizard might be. He had an awful suspicion that he might have made a bit of prat of himself, not for the first time. The man's next words confirmed it. "I've heard about you from my able young assistant, Hannah. She never stops talking of you in the office." He held out his hand. "The name's Perkins."

Neville shook hands with the man he'd suspected of being the mastermind behind Hannah's mum's death, as well as every Muggle-baiting incident in Merlin knew how many years. He listened miserably to Perkins' effusive thanks for rescuing "this poor, unfortunate young man", and finally submitted to being praised for his "prompt and quick-witted decision-making."

"The St. Mungo's chaps have been able to remove the Imperius Curse," the wizard confided affably. "It appears this chap was simply abandoned by the person responsible when he was of no further use. The memory modification will be rather trickier to unravel. Your godfather tells me there is a way to reverse the charm that implanted the false memory, but it's risky. He has insisted on waiting until the patient has more or less entirely regained his sense of self."

He paused. "Of course," he said dryly, "as the Healer in charge of his case has pointed out, quite how that tallies with the spells necessary to keep him unaware that he is in a magical hospital, I'm not sure." Neville, grinning at this accurate description of his godfather's cautious, even ponderous approach to his work suddenly understood why Hannah liked her boss. The wizard sitting in front of him appeared to be just as she'd described, the timidity of his gentle manner not entirely masking both kindness and tact, alongside high principles.

"The Auror Office is about to pull rank though, I believe. They are of the view that a highly dangerous individual is on the loose. I must say, and my ex-boss agrees, that everything points to this being the case." He checked himself. "Excuse me, I've said too much. In any event, the Legilimency will be performed in a hour or two. Ah – oh dear ..." Perkins broke off to stare over Neville's shoulder towards the door.

Neville turned. Peering through the glass was a slightly red-faced and grumpy-looking Hannah. He leapt out of his seat, but she was already on her way in. "Mr Perkins!" she cried, her irritable expression breaking into a smile as she hurried towards them. "What are you doing here? Is this your special project?" She looked from Neville to Perkins to the patient in obvious confusion.

There was no point in delaying the inevitable. "Hannah, this – this is the lorry driver."

"Hey, mate. Enough of that. My name's Mike."

Hannah flushed a more painful red. An eager, almost feverish light came into her eyes. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of. Half-answers and guesswork would be no help to her whatsoever. "We should go," he said hastily. "There's no point in being here. He doesn't know anything yet."

"What don't I know?" The lorry driver was staring at the little group clustered around his bed in even greater bewilderment than Hannah.

"Oh dear," Perkins repeated quaveringly. "This is exactly the situation we hoped to avoid when the decision was made to send Miss Abbott home on Monday."

However, his assistant had already recovered her composure, although her face was now ghostly white, rather than red. "It's all right," she said. "I know it's not his fault." She caught herself, and addressed the man on the bed directly. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to talk as though you're not here. It's a bit of a shock, that's all."

"Something to do with the accident, is it?" His voice was eager. "The one I still can't remember properly?"

"That's right," she replied. "My mum was the driver of the – the other vehicle."

"You know … I think I remember _you_." The man's eyes, not quite so vacant as when Neville had last seen him, searched her face hungrily. "The inquest …" Hannah nodded, still very pale. "It's all so foggy in my mind," he went on. "They tell me they're going to fix me."

"It's really not the time to be talking about this," interjected Perkins. Neville couldn't have agreed more. "Rest assured, my dear, when we get to the bottom of the circumstances of your mother's accident, you will be the first to know."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." The lorry driver was getting distressed. "I didn't mean to hit her. I don't know why I was even on that road. She pulled out in front of me …"

It was just like the other day. Neville felt breathless and sick at the memory of sitting in the Muggle's hot, stinking kitchen for hours. Nor was this doing Hannah any good. She was looking over at him for reassurance, as she attempted to soothe the patient. "It's all right, it's not your fault," he could hear her murmuring over and over. It sounded like she was talking to herself as much as the lorry driver.

How could he get her out of here? Neville looked around for help and at that moment saw Augustus Pye hurrying through the swing doors towards them. Behind him, a tall witch holding a large fruit basket was hovering, apparently trying to decide whether or not to follow him into the ward. From the look on the Healer's face, Neville couldn't blame her for hesitating.

"Out. All of you." Pye meant business. "This patient is not supposed to have visitors yet. What's going on?"

"It's entirely my fault," said Perkins apologetically. "Please don't blame these two."

"It's no one's fault," said Hannah quietly but firmly. "You're doing a fine job, Mr Perkins." She turned back to the lorry driver, who was calming down again, under the influence of the potion that the Healer was administering. "I'm glad to have met you properly, M – Mike. Whatever happens, when they fix you, I want you to remember that I don't hold you responsible. You're not to blame." Neville waited for her to finish, not hurrying her.

"We're just going," he said politely to Pye, who was looking at them impatiently. Perkins was getting ready to leave too. Neville wanted to apologise for suspecting the old man of murderous intentions, but there didn't seem to be an appropriate form of words. He settled on, "Bye, Mr Perkins."

"Goodbye, Mr Longbottom. It was good to meet you at last." Perkins placed a tall black hat with a broken brim on top of his white hair, and left the ward in a sweep of robes that billowed behind him as he walked.


	16. New Beginnings

Chapter Sixteen – New Beginnings

The lorry driver's eyes were closing. Hannah finished watching him fall asleep, and then slipped her hand into Neville's. With one eye on Pye, he drew her away towards the door of the ward. Outside, Perkins was now talking animatedly to the witch with the fruit basket. The old man turned to greet them again, his natural ebullience seemingly wholly renewed. "Hannah!" he called excitedly. "Let me introduce you to your predecessor. Alcina Noone … this is Hannah Abbott, the girl I was just telling you about."

"How do you do?" The witch's voice was low and melodious, and she held out a long, elegant hand for Hannah to shake. "My dear old boss was just telling me how invaluable his new assistant is proving around the office."

"On assignments too. This young lady has an excellent technique with our unfortunate victims, just as good as yours Alcina, and equally exacting standards. When she has your decades of Ministry experience under her belt, I expect she'll measure up beautifully. Innate ability. I remember Arthur always said a Muggle-born has a special feel for the work."

"Young Arthur Weasley, of course." Alcina gave what appeared to Neville to be a slightly forced smile. "Yes, I overheard him saying that too. I believe it was the day you offered me the assistant's position, and he moved onto – what was it? Ah, yes, I remember … Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. I wonder how he's doing these days."

"Do you still work at the Ministry?" Hannah asked politely. She was beginning to feel extremely tired and her neck was stinging again.

"Oh no." The witch's expression clouded with sorrow. "My parents were gravely injured at the beginning of the war and I was forced to take a leave of absence to look after them. A terrible accident involving one of those new-fangled wind turbines. They were both great walkers, you see."

"How awful," said Hannah struggling to sound sympathetic, even though her legs were barely supporting her by now. She leaned surreptitiously against the wall. "Are you here to visit them?"

"Sadly not. They did not recover." The witch fell into a grief-stricken reverie for a long moment. Visibly pulling herself together, she went on. "_Afterwards_ I took early retirement from the Ministry. I miss them dreadfully of course." She dabbed at the corner of an eye with a heavily-perfumed handkerchief.

"I'm so sorry," murmured Hannah, switching automatically into work mode. What kind of freak accident could happen with a _wind turbine_ of all things? She toyed vaguely with the idea of telling the witch how she'd found the traces of magic on the traffic light. She was about to offer her help, but wondered listlessly if she had the energy. _Don't be so daft_, she thought wearily, coming to a decision. It appeared the woman knew her stuff. _And so does Mr Perkins_, she reminded herself. Muggle-baiting on the brain, that was her problem.

"We'd – er – better be going, anyway," said Neville, looking anxiously at Hannah's chalk-white face. He was finding the powdered and scented witch a little overwhelming himself, and wondered uneasily if she was casting one of those glamour charms about which both Defence and Charms Professors had warned all the sixth year boys, in a lesson which had been extraordinarily embarrassing for everyone concerned. She couldn't possibly be part-Veela if she was Muggle-born, but the woman reminded him of an older version of Bill Weasley's noisy French fiancée, with whom he'd become briefly acquainted during his stay in the hospital wing. He'd been quite relieved when he'd been discharged, and could add Fleur Delacour to his list of people to avoid in the days leading up to Professor Dumbledore's funeral.

"Oh, absolutely! I must away myself. My dear friend Gilderoy won't wait forever." Alcina tucked her perfectly dry handkerchief back into her voluminous cloak and flashed them a final brilliant smile.

"Er – they lock the closed ward at four-thirty, didn't they tell you?" said Neville concernedly. It was a pity she'd almost missed visiting hours. Professor Lockhart looked increasingly lonely these days.

"No, really?" The witch fixed him with a rather cold eye. "Well, I must hurry then."

They left her and Perkins still reminiscing loudly about old times. As they went around the corner, Neville was surprised to see a tall, red-headed figure in horn-rimmed glasses leaning casually against the wall. He was hurriedly rolling something up and shoving a hand into his pocket, while simultaneously attempting to appear engrossed in reading a small notebook. As they passed him, Percy Weasley nodded curtly at Neville. From years of living with Gran, Neville knew perfectly well how to cut people dead, but it didn't come naturally to him. He gave an embarrassed half-nod, half-shrug in response, not sure of the form in responding to the greeting of a former Gryffindor Prefect and Head Boy, while displaying solidarity with friends who for the past two years had muttered, snarled and practically gnashed their teeth whenever their brother was brought up in conversation.

As the cooler air of the stairwell hit them, Hannah appeared to revive somewhat. "How was your appointment?" he asked, as they headed back towards the Floo connection in Reception.

"Don't even ask. The special programme Madam Pomfrey mentioned doesn't exist. I can't imagine it ever did. The Healer seemed to think I was _deformed_ or something. You should have heard the way she said 'Muggle-born.'" She glanced up at him, with a rueful smile. "Never mind. It was worth finding out."

"What's that on your neck?" He stopped, turned her to face him, and tilted her chin up. "It looks like a _burn_. It's really deep. Doesn't it need treatment?"

"She's given me some Murtlap Essence."

Neville was furious. "That'll only stop it hurting. It won't prevent scarring. Come on. You need something better."

"There's no way I'm going back to see that cow."

"All right then." Neville turned and began leading the way back to the Spell Damage corridor. "So, you've got a diagnosis, but there's nothing they can do to help?"

"Keep taking the potion, was the upshot."

_Typical_. He said nothing, just walked a bit faster.

"It's fine, Neville. I'll manage. A few weeks ago I thought I'd lost my magic for good. There are worse things than the odd headache and dizzy spell. I'll just have to be a bit careful. It's not like I was hoping for some kind of high-flying career in Magical Law Enforcement."

"Why not? You'd be a great Obliviator. Once you've qualified, you'd be loads better than all the ones my Uncle Arnie moans about, who only went in for it 'cause they failed their entrance for the Auror programme. He reckons all they're interested in is seeing who can cast the strongest Memory Charm, and never mind if they take more than the target memory."

"I'll be lucky if I ever do qualify." Hannah sounded breathless. He realised she was almost running to keep up with him, and slowed down, feeling guilty. "I'm going to have to do my NEWTs while I'm working," she went on. "And pay for them myself. Dad's not going to be in a position to help, if he ever comes home."

_You can say that again, _he thought bitterly, speeding up again without noticing.

"It'll take me at least two years, perhaps longer, and I've lost a year already. Even supposing I _wanted_ to be an Obliviator, you have to get on the waiting list early for anything decent in MLE if you want a hope of getting in. Not to mention there's the whole Muggle-born thing." He made a half-hearted sound of protest. "Yes, I _know_ the Ministry is supposed to be equal opportunities, but it doesn't exactly improve my chances."

"I'll help," he said grimly, as they rounded the last flight of stairs. Percy Weasley was no longer anywhere to be seen. "I can coach you in Defence and Charms."

"You've got your own exams to worry about. And a war to help win. You can worry about me when that's all over."

Against his will, a voice of foreboding whispered, _if it's ever over_. Neville ignored it, concentrating instead on the rosier future he pictured, which involved dividing his time fairly equally between improving his Herbology, and many more lie-ins with Hannah.

Pye wasn't in any of the wards. Neville knocked loudly on the door of the office right at the far end of the corridor. It flew open, preceded by an impatient voice. "What is it now, Mrs Strout? I'm on my break … Oh."

The young Healer looked down at the two teenagers interrupting the first chance he'd had to put his feet up in twelve hours. The short girl looked uncomfortable. The son of the two long-stay patients in Thickey looked angry. "You again," he said resignedly.

* * *

Two minutes later, Hannah was lying on a leather couch being closely scrutinised for the second time that day. However, this time she felt rather better about it. Pye was much nicer-looking than Healer Trelawney, and friendlier too. Even though he was clearly exhausted, he'd agreed to take a look at her injury immediately.

"Hmm. Nasty. _Assuageo_, you said?"

"That's what it sounded like."

"Wouldn't hurt to try it again. It's cumulative." He pointed his wand at Hannah's throat and she braced herself for the shock of magic. However, all she felt was a mild tingling, and then the stinging pain diminished rapidly. After a few seconds it had almost completely gone. She touched her neck tentatively. The hard ridge of damaged skin had disappeared, leaving behind a smaller patch that was smooth and faintly sore. He hadn't even spoken the incantation aloud.

"Wow," said Neville, looking at the Healer with distinct hero-worship.

"Are you the Amplification patient I heard about in the canteen?" Pye asked, as he rummaged in a black leather case full of books and rattling bottles.

"Er –" replied Hannah, hideously embarrassed. Neville came to her rescue.

"Yes, she is. Remember, I told you the other day?" Pye nodded. "But they didn't do anything, except cast some sort of spell that _hurt_ her."

"Yes, I've heard those cloaks can go white-hot under testing, but I've never seen one give off more than a gentle glow." Pye looked at Hannah with open fascination. "You must have lit up like a beacon." She squirmed.

"That's not quite fair, Neville. She did offer me a new potion." She looked at Pye apologetically. "The one I take now makes me feel sick though, and this one sounded even worse, so I said no."

"Is that all? She didn't suggest any sort of … er … training?"

"No! That's what the school nurse said I could do – learn to control it. Do you know how it works?"

The Healer looked at her appraisingly. He was holding a round metal tin that looked comfortingly like something Madam Pomfrey would have in her medicine cupboard. "Have you heard of something called Occlumency?"

"N – no."

"I have," Neville interrupted eagerly. "Wait a minute. Let me think. We learned about it in Defence last year."

Hannah waited, happier than she had felt all afternoon, while Pye began covering the burn scar on her neck with a thick, yellow paste. She smiled at Neville's anxious, determined expression as he struggled to remember, and squeezed his hand encouragingly. "It's the m –_magical defence of the mind_ against, um … _external penetration_. It's a way of dealing with Dementors. It was all theory though. Professor … our teacher said it was too subtle and complicated to learn in a class. Then he got into an argument with – er – someone and didn't say anymore."

"That's right," said Pye approvingly. "It's a one to one kind of deal. However, Occlumency's not only for … what's that book called?_Confronting the Faceless_. There are a few variations, one of which is protection from overt physical and psychological sensitivity to atmospheric magic. It won't cancel out the symptoms entirely, but the acquired fine control can be applied to deaden shocks from intense bursts of power, and insulate the pathways which are highly vulnerable in people with your condition."

"It sounds perfect," Hannah said glumly. "But who's going to teach me that?"

"Well, that's the problem. Although it isn't officially classed as a restricted branch of magic, it's not easy to get hold of information about it, which could be the reason it's faded into relative obscurity. Possibly the Ministry consider it potentially subversive. That wouldn't surprise me, given the number of obstacles they place in the way of anyone wanting to learn details of the actual practice. You need special dispensation from the Wizengamot to study it, not unlike the registration process to become an Animagus. I managed to learn a bit about it from from a friend of mine in Magical Law Enforcement. She's pretty modest, but I suspect she's a bit of a prodigy. She says that not all Aurors get further along the Advanced Training route than basic Occlumency and its flipside, Legilimency, which is even more specialised." Hannah wondered if her guess as to the identity of Pye's friend was the right one, and glanced at Neville to see if he was thinking along similar lines. "She's a bit worried about losing her certification next year. Masters capable of teaching for the test in both areas have suddenly become very scarce indeed. The last few years there were just two left, and they alternated the training and examining. You'll know who they are if I tell you that one of them's dead and the other's on the run for murder." Neville's and Hannah's eyes widened in shock, and they exchanged an altogether more serious look. "My friend tells me they're thinking of suspending it from the programme altogether."

Pye replaced the lid on the burn paste. "When I was back in sixth year myself, my friend and I asked our teacher about it. I'd been reading up on the medical applications, and she wanted to know why it wasn't part of the curriculum for practical Defence. He fobbed us off with a load of flannel about it being …" Pye's voice acquired a very faint stammer … "'_incredibly d – difficult to master_' and how it was '_way beyond our mediocre and p – pedestrian abilities_.'" There was an amused glint in the Healer's eyes. "Which may have been justified in my case, but certainly wasn't true of my friend. She was livid. You should have Dora heard raging about how it was completely obvious the stupid git wasn't an Occlumens himself."

Neville and Hannah grinned at each other. "Of course," he continued, turning his back for a moment and reaching into his case again, "A certain kind of witch or wizard will always find ways round the legislation, study independently. Rightly so, if you ask me, otherwise many of our more complex and difficult to acquire skills would simply die out and be lost forever." Even Neville could read between the lines. He'd bet that Pye knew a lot more about Occlumency than he was letting on. Facing his patient once more, the Healer lifted his wand to measure it against the area of damaged skin on Hannah's neck. "There used to be a bloke here who saw the occasional Sensitive, sorry, _Amplification Disorder_ patient, but he retired years ago, and wasn't replaced. Times have changed."

"How do you mean?" asked Hannah, highly interested. Neville smiled to himself. This was exactly her kind of conversation.

"Don't quote me, but Healing's been stuck in the doldrums for years. It's all 'conservative' remedies these days. Even then, if a new treatment hasn't been developed by someone with a string of letters after their name, and a bloodline going back to Bonham himself, like that bloke Belby who invented Wolfsbane a few years back, you can forget it."

He held up a square of bandage, and trimmed it to the right size with his wand, frowning. "Of course, that _was_ an important breakthrough, but in a case such as yours, encouraging the perception that it's an affliction to be controlled with potions …" He shook his head in annoyance. "Don't mind me. Mustn't criticise the firm. But old Pomfrey was absolutely right. You need to learn to deal with it on your own now you're no longer in the protected environment of school. I suppose she can't have heard how much things have changed out here. She gets some interesting cases up at Hogwarts, I bet." He sounded rather envious. "She knows her stuff, remembers how it was before the last war weeded out most of our best people. Like your parents." Pye nodded at Neville, who turned pink.

"They weren't Healers though," he said, puzzled.

"No, of course not. I was talking more generally. Time was, there was a lot more forward-thinking going on. In Healing and related areas, Potions and Herbology research for example, innovation was particularly valued, but exciting stuff was happening in government and law reform as well. You'll have learned a lot of this stuff from crazy old Binns, I expect?"

"Er – " replied Neville. Hannah nodded vigorously.

"Don't move just yet, will you? Thanks." Pye pointed his wand again and she felt the dressing seal itself against the wound on her neck.

"Even in nursing things were more progressive." He nodded at Neville again. "Back then, patients in the Janus Thickey ward would have received a wider range of stimulus, both physical and mental. There used to be a quite a large music therapy department thirty years ago. That was when St. Mungo's had a Muggle-born matron. Hard to imagine now."

He replaced the lid on the burn paste. "You're done," he said. "Sorry for going on. Bit of a bee in my bonnet about this sort of thing, gets worse when I've been handing out Draughts of Peace for forty-eight hours straight." Hannah thought she could detect resentment in the Healer's voice. "Are – are you a …?" She didn't need to finish the question.

"Muggle-born? No. Half-blood. Of a sort. My dad was a wizard, just barely. He didn't go to Hogwarts." Pye sounded neither proud nor defensive. "Mum was a G.P. That's a Muggle doctor," he explained, for Neville's benefit.

"Point is," he continued, "before you go, you need to understand that this 'condition' of yours wasn't always treated as an illness. In my old History of Healing textbook, it used to be considered akin to Seeing, or any other highly developed magical capability. They ought to be falling over themselves to make use of you at the Ministry, if you ask me. Don't quote me on this either, but you're right not to make a habit of taking that Calming Draught. It'll dull your faculties eventually, although it's fine as a one-off if you have a bad attack."

"OK," said Hannah. It was an incredible relief to learn that her instincts had been correct.

"Don't give up. There's stuff to read about Occlumency if you look about._Self-Defensive Spellwork_, that's got a good chapter …_Powers You Never Knew You Had_ … a bit self-helpy, but not bad … _Practical Defensive Magic_ … more of a Dark Arts focus that one, but the theory's sound. I'll send you a list."

Pye took Hannah's chin for the last time and looked at her intently, examining his handiwork. She gave a minute nod of acknowledgement, and he let go, apparently satisfied. "Thank you so much, Mr Pye." She got to her feet and looked at Neville. "Let's go home."

Passing the entrance to the Hester Truelove ward on their way out of the Spell Damage corridor, they glanced in briefly. All they could make out was a phalanx of dark Ministry robes surrounding the lorry driver's bed. "The Aurors have arrived to interview him," said Hannah, as they went on their way.

"Loads of them," answered Neville. "I think I caught sight of Tonks …" He turned and looked back. "There goes my Uncle Arnie with Mrs Strout! He must be helping them do it properly." He glowed with pride.

Five minutes later, they finally reached the fireplace that was connected to the Floo Network, having talked about the amazing coolness of Augustus Pye the entire way and completely failing to come to any agreement about which House he and Tonks would have been in at school. "Dora …" murmured Hannah, as they reached Reception. "I wonder why she's so funny about it? It's a bit old-fashioned but …" Neville hardly heard her. It was shift-change time, and there was a massive queue for the fireplace.

"I don't suppose you fancy Apparating?" he asked hopefully. Hannah looked askance at him.

"All right," she said reluctantly. "If you'll let me help you with the Deliberation part. I'm sure it's why you keep ending up on the floor at the other end."

"Come on then, bossy boots." He put his arm around Hannah's waist and wrapped his cloak around her. "Are we going back to ours, or Gran's?"

"Augusta's, remember? I promised I'd meet all her WWE ladies."

"Oh,_Merlin_." He'd completely forgotten. "They're incredibly nosy you know. Are you sure you wouldn't just like to go back to the house? We could…" He whispered in her ear.

"Later," Hannah said, not even slightly repressively, as they Disapparated.

* * *

"Very well." Augusta was pleased with how the meeting had gone. They'd been briefed on latest Ministry policy. The item she had tentatively put forward on keeping abreast of Muggle current affairs had gone over very well, enthusiastically seconded by Griselda and, when put to the vote, passed unanimously. Minerva had given her update on the status of the discussions about security at Hogwarts for the coming year. Augusta was happy for Neville to return to school for his seventh year. Much as she'd felt in previous years, she considered he'd be safer from a personal attack, surrounded by highly skilled and trained witches and wizards at school, than isolated at home with her. Of course, she thought with frustration and no small amount of pride, there was no accounting for reckless heroics. She could only hope he'd learned his lesson after last time, but there was no sign as yet. Perhaps if she had a word with the girl?

Yes, she mused, one or two further successful demonstrations of her loyalty and organisational abilities, and Augusta would feel ready to approach the key member of her Committee about being taken into her confidence. She had no intention of living through another war more or less completely in the dark about how bad things were _really_ going to get. Dumbledore's resistance organisation that Frank and Alice had been part of – Order of the Phoenix she seemed to remember it being called that time – it hadto have been reinstated. They needed people like her. She was no slouch when it came to Defence Against the Dark Arts, even if she was a little creaky in the joints. She might not be an Animagus, she thought proudly, but Augusta Longbottom would take Minerva McGonagall in a duel any day of the week. Where had Frank got his talent from in the first place?

She wrenched her mind back to her duties as Chair. "Our next meeting is to be at Griselda's, on the second of September. Secretary, is that the last item on the agenda?"

Arabella Figg looked up from taking the minutes. "Apart from expressing our thanks for hosting the meeting and providing such a splendid tea. Any other business?"

"Yes." A youngish witch with long dark hair wearing fuchsia pink robes spoke up aggressively. "I'd like to know why my suggestion from the last meeting hasn't been voted on?"

"You know perfectly well, Carlotta," snapped Minerva McGonagall. "There is no point in even discussing it."

"It's an outrage." The witch rose to her feet and shook her fist in the air. "Freedom of speech! A clear breach of my civil liberties."

"Please address the Chair, dear," said Mafalda Hopkirk cosily. "Another pumpkin pasty?"

"Fine," said Augusta wearily. "Let's put it to the vote."

"Thank you. That is all I ask." Carlotta Pinkstone, activist and firebrand, sat down again and took a large bite out of her pasty.

Arabella Figg spoke again. "All those in favour of staging a large-scale demonstration of magic in Trafalgar Square, involving the Vanishing of both lions and the shrinking of Nelson's Column, please raise your hands." She looked around enquiringly. Carlotta's hand was the only one raised. "Excellent. Augusta, I thought you hated cats?"

"No, she only hates _my_ cats," interjected Griselda Marchbanks.

"That is because _they_ are smelly toms that don't know how to wash," Augusta responded smartly, relaxing at last. Another half an hour, and she might suggest opening the decent bottle of wine Enid had brought to Neville's birthday celebration. "This one, on the other hand, is relatively civilised, if greedy." Zophy, who had just wandered in, made a beeline for Arabella Figg's chair and wound herself around the old woman's knobbly ankles.

"You're a beauty, aren't you? I remember you very well."

"One of your animals is it?" Augusta was surprised. "It belongs to my houseguest, a young woman by the name of Hannah. How on earth did she run across you?"

"It's important for my loves to find the right humans. I've had people travel hundreds of miles, from as far afield as Penzance and Inverness, and not have the slightest idea they've been found by the litter and not the other way around. I used to get old Dung to put adverts in all the Muggle papers. Didn't cost me a thing. Such a nuisance he's been put away." She picked up Zophy, failing to notice the grim glances exchanged by the rest of the women.

Not wanting her successful gathering hijacked by talk of disreputable criminals, Augusta steered the conversation away from more endless, futile discussion regarding the pros and cons of the Ministry's draconian security measures. "The girl's a Hufflepuff, Celia," she said in her gentlest voice, addressing the only member of the group who wasn't eagerly tucking into more food and taking part in the conversation. Possibly mentioning her grandson's young, female – er – _friend_ ran the risk of developing into another dangerous topic, but she'd decided that brazening things out and taking any subsequent gossip on the chin was the only sensible policy, given that the children could arrive through the door or fireplace at any moment, no doubt clinging onto each other's hands in that annoying, lovesick fashion of theirs.

"Yes, indeed." Minerva McGonagall embraced the change of subject with relief. She was heartily fed up of Arabella banging on about Mundungus Fletcher at Order meetings. It was ninety-nine percent certain the man was _guilty_, for heaven's sake. As if she didn't have enough to think about, without worrying about smuggling pipe tobacco and warm socks into Azkaban. "And a highly conscientious prefect, according to Pomona. A pity she had to leave."

The pretty woman who had been staring out of the window at the setting sun for the previous fifteen minutes now turned her head towards her hostess in sudden interest. "Really? What's her surname?"

"Abbott. Muggle-born," Augusta replied. "We had the father here for a time, _not_ an experience I'd care to repeat."

"I remember her, too," mused Arabella Figg. "A sad-faced thing, with her hair in funny little plaits. A witch, was she? I must say, I would never have guessed. Looked all Muggle when I met her."

"She'll be along soon, you can meet her again. Rather milk-and-water when she first arrived, but I'm quite pleased with the way she's turning out after a bit of fresh air and a few weeks of home cooking. She's not slow on the uptake, and a bonny lass when she isn't bursting into tears all over the place." Augusta paused. It stuck in her throat to be charitable, but she felt honour-bound to be fair to the girl. "Not her fault, actually. She lost her mother, only a few months back. She tries hard, I'll give her that."

"As does Neville," Minerva broke in, a little sharply. "He's come on wonderfully this past year or two, as I think I've mentioned before." She really _must_ get those letters sent out, now that the governors had finally decided in favour of reopening. At least none of the staff had deserted her … yet.

Augusta inclined her head graciously. "Thank you, Minerva. You're right. They're both hard workers, and responsible." _When they're not leading each other into mischief_, she added silently, but there was no need to mention night broomstick flights and vandalism of public property to her grandson's Headmistress. Of course, it was entirely possible Minerva had heard something of either escapade, perhaps via Arthur Weasley, or from that stroppy young woman with the peculiar pink barnet. _Auror_ Tonks, if you please. It was good to know her instincts could still be relied upon. She'd thought all along that the gate-crasher with the long, dark hair at Neville's party had looked uncannily like Andromeda Black-that-was. How the girl managed to get past their not inconsiderable defences was anybody's guess, she must have Apparated clean into the front hallway. Shocking rudeness. Somehow, Augusta hadn't been able to get close enough to throw her out. Still, one couldn't expect ceremony from that Ministry lot. Standards had certainly declined since her Frank's day. At least she'd had the decency to leave at a respectable hour, which was more than could be said for Neville's godfather and his flighty wife. She'd practically had to pry them both off the sofa at midnight.

Still, she mused, there was an outside chance that Neville would get a second shot at Gryffindor prefect, given what she'd heard recently about the second-to-youngest Weasley refusing to go back to school, and disappearing off Merlin knew where with the Potter boy. Not to mention they'd taken that lass with them, the one Neville used to chatter about non-stop a couple of years back. Firmly, Augusta told herself off for putting two and two together and coming up with increasingly high numbers, and brought her attention back to her WWE committee ladies and the immediate problem of staving off any unsavoury speculation regarding the good name of Longbottom. If Molly Weasley had been able to make it to today's meeting instead of sending her apologies, she might have lent a bit of moral support. Augusta sniffed. Fat chance, knowing what a hypocrite the woman could be. "The two of them have a good effect on each other, any road," she finished, with a slight feeling of trepidation. _Here it comes_.

"You mean to say you've had two teenagers living under the same roof all summer? Is that quite _seemly_, Augusta?" Carlotta Pinkstone smirked behind her hand and winked at Minerva, who didn't smile back.

"They're both adults now." Augusta glared around the table. "I don't interfere."

* * *

Neville and Hannah walked into the resounding silence that had greeted these last words. "Hello," said Hannah, blushing intensely at being inspected from every angle. She felt very self-conscious about the burn paste on her neck, which was leaking through the gauze the Healer had placed over it. Neville gave her hand a final squeeze and raised his eyebrows at his grandmother.

"Er – ?" he said uncertainly. Augusta nodded graciously, clearly indicating that he should make the introductions. _Poor Neville_, thought Hannah. She wished his gran would give him a break occasionally. "Um, you know Professor McGonagall, of course … Professor Marchbanks …"

"Good afternoon, young lady. Nice to meet you again." Griselda had Trevor on her lap again. Hannah tried not to giggle. It seemed as though the eminent examiner was the only human to appreciate the toad's finer qualities, other than his owner.

"This is Mrs Hopkirk," Neville continued. "She works at the Ministry."

"Call me Mafalda, my dear," said a plump witch in white robes. Her face was kind, but she had eyes that looked as though they could bore through steel.

"Mrs Figg." He gestured towards an untidy old woman who looked, frankly, completely bats. Hannah took a second look, and gasped. There was no forgetting that squashed-in face. She even _looked_ a bit like Zophy, who was currently allowing herself to be worn like a ruff around the woman's neck.

"H – haven't we met before?" she asked in confusion.

"That's right, dearie. Family of six." The old woman put up a hand to scratch Hannah's cat behind the ears. "Two brothers and three sisters this one had, not one of them a patch on this little beauty. You got the pick of the bunch, that's for certain."

"I – I never realised you were a witch!"

"Oh, I'm no witch. Squib to the core. Go to your mistress, little one." Arabella Figg pushed Zophy off her shoulders.

"Does that mean she could be … magical?"

"You tell me, dearie. Has she done a good job of looking after you?"

Hannah stooped and picked up her cat. "Yes," she said, her voice muffled as she buried her face in Zophy's fur.

Neville coughed. "This – this is Mrs Diggory." Hannah's face reappeared, and she nearly let the cat drop to the ground.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Hannah. I'm so sorry to hear about your mother. What a dreadful loss."

"You're … Cedric's mum?"

"That's right."

She couldn't think of anything adequate to say. "I was in his house."

"I know, my dear. He spoke of you as a future prefect. He was right, I believe?"

"Y – yes."

Augusta cut in. "Sit down, Hannah. Neville, there's a fresh pot of tea in the kitchen."

He went to fetch it. When he got back, he found Hannah laughing, deep in conversation with Gran's friends, looking quite part of the circle. His presence no longer required, he wandered back through the kitchen and out into the garden, Trevor hopping behind. There would be time to tie up those raspberry canes if he got cracking.


	17. The Court of Last Resort

Chapter Seventeen – The Court of Last Resort

The remaining weeks of Neville's summer holiday flew past. Shortening evenings were spent in the steeply sloping garden behind Hill House, alternating with supper at Gran's. Hannah wasn't called back to work. She became worried, and Hebe took a letter to the Ministry. A reply came by return owl from Arthur Weasley which simply said:

_Complications. Will be in touch shortly. P.S. My daughter thanks you for the interesting present you left for me to give to her, and wishes to assure you of its safe arrival._

For a moment, Hannah had looked at Neville blankly. She barely knew Ginny Weasley, mystified. They'd eventually come to the conclusion that Mr Weasley must be referring to the glass she'd left on his desk, the morning she'd been sent home from work. Why he'd felt the need to be quite so cryptic about it in a private note, Neville wasn't sure.

A day later, an envelope with an official stamp arrived from the Personnel Office. It contained a cheque for her remaining salary, and a letter thanking her for filling in as 'temporary' Assistant in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. Hannah's face had tightened in the way it had when she'd received the letter from her dad. Then she'd shrugged, and said she wasn't sure she was cut out to be a civil servant anyway.

Neville walked into his grandmother's living-room and threw himself onto the lumpy sofa next to his girlfriend, who clucked as she nearly spilt her tea. Shadows were lengthening across the faded carpet. His arms were aching from wrestling with the hand mower, which had been proving decidedly uncooperative in recent weeks. There was nothing for it, if Gran was going be able to manage the heavy old contraption by herself into October, he'd have to strip it down and rebuild the charms from the ground up before he went back to school next week.

His grandmother followed him in from the kitchen with a plate of biscuits. "It's all settled," she said briskly, lowering herself stiffly into her armchair. "While you've been outside, Hannah and I have come to an arrangement."

"Oh?" He slanted his eyes nervously in Hannah's direction and was relieved to see that she looked perfectly calm.

Neville selected a handful of ginger newts, snapping one of them in the process and dropping crumbs on the rug. Gran frowned but didn't admonish him, her mind apparently on other matters. "When you go back to Hogwarts, she'll be stopping with me. No reason to change anything. She can earn her keep helping me around the place."

"What about your dad?" he asked curiously. He hadn't voiced anything to Hannah, but sincerely hoped Mr Abbott would be keeping his distance from now on.

Hannah shrugged, making an obvious effort to appear unconcerned. She reddened slightly, but kept her voice level. "I had to let him know the house is being repossessed. It's probably for the best. There'll be enough to pay off the mortgage, just about. He's going to stay in Shetland for the time being, he says. He _claims_ he's found work on the docks."

_With any luck he'll fall in and drown_, thought Neville. He caught the tail end of one of Gran's most forbidding glares. For once it wasn't directed at him, but at a point in the middle distance. He had the distinct impression she was having a similar thought. He felt pleased and relieved that Gran – and Hannah – would have company during the coming year. It made the prospect of returning to school more palatable but even so, he was looking forward to the new term with little anticipation. He felt like he'd moved on over the summer, that there were more important things he should be doing than learning a few new charms. He could sit his Herbology NEWT tomorrow, and how on earth was Professor McGonagall going to find anyone competent enough to teach seventh year Defence? He frowned thoughtfully. Perhaps Harry could be persuaded to reform the DA this year. Neville resolved to get Ginny to work on him at the earliest opportunity. He could hardly pretend that Hogwarts students didn't need all the help they could get, not now.

"I've decided to carry on with the NEWTS I started last year by correspondence," Hannah went on, in the most enthusiastic voice he'd heard her use since getting the sack from the Ministry. "Professor McGonagall said she'd talk to Professor Sprout about setting it up for me."

"You're going to do all _five_?" He shook his head. "You must be mad. The workload's a nightmare and I'm only doing three."

"Well, I'll have plenty of time on my hands. Arithmancy, History of Magic and Muggle Studies will be OK, I think." She snapped the head off a ginger newt and chewed it thoughtfully.

"Swot," he teased.

Hannah ignored him. "Charms will be the biggest challenge, but Professor McGonagall said she was sure Professor Flitwick wouldn't mind if I made the occasional Floo call. And I'll be relying on you to help me pass Herbology." He raised his eyebrows and she coloured again.

"And by that you mean: can I do all the heavy work, and help you with the coursework in the holidays?"

"We – ell," she drawled. "Maybe, a bit." She smiled winningly.

"Glad to be of service." He grinned as Hannah stuck her tongue out at him.

"That's enough, you two," said Augusta, forgetting for a moment that the two children in front of her were old enough to lose first jobs, fight Death Eaters, and even get married if they wanted to. Although there didn't seem to be signs of anything like _that_ yet, thank goodness. She congratulated herself once again on her handling of the situation, smiling as the thought occurred to her that she was getting as modern as Griselda in her old age. Yes, she reflected, it was easier to be a parent second time around in some ways. Naturally, she conceded comfortably, it helped that Neville took after his mother, he'd always had her sweet, biddable nature. That, of course, had been the problem.

She listened to Neville and Hannah bickering amiably, both giving as good as they got. As the last sunbeams hit the carpet, dazzling her and preventing her seeing the children's faces, Augusta was transported back seventeen years, to an image of her son and his new wife sitting opposite her on the very same sofa. _No_, she said to herself firmly, _don't go over it all again_. It was no use. Augusta's thoughts ran on without her permission, the rigid self-control that had sustained her for so many years crumbling, breaking into pieces like a damp loaf. She knew it was time she stopped blaming Alice for how things had turned out. It should have been clear from the start, had she been willing to admit the truth. If only Frank had agreed to go into hiding and let old Mad-eye be their Secret Keeper, as Dumbledore had suggested … Instead, she thought grimly, he'd been his typical bloody-minded self, rather than listening to his wife, his mother and his boss, not to mention the leader of the Order.

No, she would be honest with herself for once. Blaming Frank didn't work either. The sun moved round and the two young people came into view again. Lost in thought, Augusta watched Hannah summoning the letter from Pomona she'd read at least dozen times since receiving it the day before. As her eyes followed the precise but hesitant wand work, something fell into place. A bright enough witch with a decent head on her shoulders, but the girl was no Alice. Neville's mother had been as much of a fighter as her husband. She'd supported Frank whole-heartedly, unwilling to abandon the fight, and as equally unwilling to put her family's safety in the hands of another, even a trusted friend. And the mother's judgement had been true, in the end. She'd kept her boy safe, throughout those long, terrible final months of the war. It was only later … Augusta shuddered. If Neville had been with his grandparents, like she'd wanted, when those monsters had called that day …

The Death Eaters had come and gone in minutes, staying only long enough to establish the house was empty apart from the old woman. The eldest Black sister, her beautiful face twisted in an amused sneer, had cast the Cruciatus curse almost casually as she left. Augusta had wished for death, lying across her own front doorstep, unable to move, to give any warning. The haze of pain had seemed to go on forever, although as she found out later, it had been only a quarter of an hour before her husband had returned and found her. She had managed to crawl as far as the entrance hall, heading for the Floo, her wand clutched uselessly in her crippled fingers. It was already too late. As she remembered her weakness, the squeeze of guilt around her heart made her feel faint for a moment.

She looked at her grandson, now Levitating the big teapot rather deftly, and her face softened. Throughout the endless afternoon before her husband had returned to tell her where and how Frank and Alice had been found, only the knowledge that her grandson was safe had kept her body and soul together. Sixteen years on, the expression of grim concentration on Neville's face reminded her strongly of his father. He would always have Alice's round and friendly face, but he was losing the chubbiness of childhood along with the permanent air of over-anxiety, which had always inspired in her mixed feelings of protectiveness and aggravation. She unrolled her knitting and bent her head to hide an unaccustomed mist in her old eyes.

"It's going to take me ages, that's the annoying thing," Hannah was grumbling. "Two to three years probably, Professor Sprout says. I was wondering, next year, when you've finished with school, maybe you could start Potions again? Keep me company in my misery. You don't have to have an Exceeds Expectations for distance learning, they let you on with an Acceptable."

"Hmm," Neville said non-commitally.

"At least think about it. Talk to people. Ernie's good at Potions."

He scowled. There wasn't a snowdrop's chance in hell he'd be asking that stuffed shirt for advice. He would think about it, but when – not if – he did pick up Potions again, it'd be on his terms. He changed the subject. "If you pass your Apparition Test soon, you can come and see me at weekends. Every weekend. I can go out on Saturdays now I'm a seventh year."

"We can sit in Madam Puddifoot's teashop." Hannah beamed. Neville returned the teapot to the hearth and kept quiet. He'd been thinking more along the lines of the rooms it was rumoured could be booked by the hour above the Hog's Head.

* * *

Two days later, they walked down the steps of Gringott's Bank and stood for a moment, making the most of the afternoon sunshine. Hannah finally had her own bank account. Neville was reeling from the discovery, on opening his parents' vault ten minutes earlier, that he was a man of some means. Compound interest was better than magic. There'd be more than enough to have a Self-heating, Maxisize Copper Cauldron installed at Gran's, an even better one than the seventeen year old model in Hill House. With what was left over, he'd be able to get loads of new plants, and pay for Hannah's Apparition lessons if she'd let him.

"How long is it until we're meeting them?" asked Hannah huskily, her voice contracting with fear.

"Another ten minutes." He put his arm around her and she leaned her head on his shoulder. At least he could comfort her now, he thought, remembering the last time they'd been to the Leaky Cauldron together.

"What do you think they'll tell me?"

"That the culprit's behind bars." She shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon, and he pulled her into a hug.

"I hope so," she whispered. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, a signal. She turned her face up like a flower leaning towards the sun, eyes closed, waiting trustingly. He could feel every part of her, pressed against him through the thin material of her summer dress. The thought occurred to him, not for the first time, that he would find it strange, uncomfortable to sleep alone again. He kissed her again, to drive the prospect from his mind, and she responded as though they were completely alone, rather than standing on a scrubbed, white step with goblins and wizards from the bank rushing past them at intervals. Eventually, one pushed into them, and tutted irritably. They broke apart, Neville looking around in embarrassment to check it wasn't anyone who knew him. Hannah laughed up at him unselfconsciously. He felt a twist of longing and pain at the thought of leaving her, even for a week at a time. Now. He should ask her now, before they had to leave the bright day for the darkness of the pub.

"Hannah?"

"Mmm?" she hummed into his neck.

"When school's over … and the war …?" He stopped. This was a lot harder than he thought. She looked up, frowning slightly.

"What is it?"

"Will you … can we …that is … I want to move into Mum and Dad's place properly. I'd like you to come with me."

He watched as her eyes filled with tears, which she blinked furiously away. He'd take that as a yes.

* * *

They walked in to the pub. As all those weeks before, Arthur Weasley was seated at the small round table in the darkest corner of the lounge. However, this time, instead of Hannah's dad, the stout wizard with the loud voice she remembered from Neville's party was with him. After ordering two pumpkin juices from the bar, Neville and Hannah joined them. The two older wizards' faces were very serious and she shivered again. It was colder in the pub than outside.

"Hi, Uncle Arnie, Mr Weasley," said Neville.

Hannah was too impatient for polite greetings. "Did he give you a name, the lorry driver? Do – do you know who …?" She found she couldn't finish the question, and was grateful for the reassuring pressure of Neville's hand clasped around hers under the table.

"First things first, Hannah," replied Mr Weasley soberly. "I need to give back something that belongs to you." She looked at him in puzzlement, as he stooped to reach into his briefcase. He handed her a small plastic bag. It contained the glass from the traffic light.

"I don't understand," she said in puzzlement. "This is our evidence … isn't it?" she finished uncertainly.

"Yes, it is. Keep it safe. Don't show it to anyone. I have something else I am forced to give you." Next, Mr Weasley handed her a thick envelope. The heavy red wax of the Ministry seal made it look very imposing and official. "Don't open it quite yet," he said in response to her anxious, enquiring look. He sighed deeply, as though he didn't know how to continue.

"There's something we need to warn you about first." Arnold Peasegood spoke for the first time, addressing both of them. "A couple of weeks ago … Merlin, nearly three now, how time flies …" He shook his head. "Yes, anyway, there was an … _incident_ at St. Mungo's."

"No." Mr Weasley interrupted him. "Not an incident, Arnie. A murder."

Neville gasped. _That's that then_, was his immediate thought. _It's over_. Hannah's grip tightened convulsively until he thought she was going to break all the bones in his hand.

"Please, let me, Arthur," his godfather went on. "If there'd been one of my men on duty …"

"I never would have believed it. All those years of service …" The usually calm and cheerful wizard was white and shaken.

"I know, old son," said his friend comfortingly. "It just goes to show, you never know who you can trust these days."

"You're talking about Perkins, aren't you?" asked Neville, his voice heavy with despair. His godfather looked at him incredulously.

"What have you heard?" he said sharply. "One of the Aurors noticed you hanging around the afternoon it happened, but said they were sure you didn't see anything. Don't tell me it's been leaked already, it'll ruin everything." He exchanged worried glances with Mr Weasley.

"I haven't heard a thing," answered Neville, still dully. "I just had this feeling. I hoped I was wrong." He felt no sense of triumph whatsoever at having been proved right. He couldn't bear to look in Hannah's direction, as he went on. "The lorry driver … he's dead and now we'll never know how Hannah's mum died. Isn't that what you were going to say?"

"No!" cried Hannah. "I can't believe it. Not Mr Perkins."

His godfather was now looking confused. "What are you on about? The Muggle's fine. Right as rain. Wait a minute …" His brow cleared, suddenly relieved. "You're not still thinking of that poor old buffer as a Muggle-baiter…?"

"I didn't, not once I met him, but you said …"

"Merlin's beard, Neville. I thought you were growing a bit of sense at last. I vetted him. I told you I was going to. I thought he could handle it. It's all my fault. I should never have put an old man to do a young man's job. It's Perkins who was killed. In the line of duty, not a bad way to go, but it should never have happened."

There was a long pause. Neville felt the hand in his go suddenly limp. "H – How …?" Hannah whispered.

After a long moment, Arthur Weasley spoke, his voice filled with weary sadness. "I think you should open that letter now." Tears ran down Hannah's cheeks as she broke the heavy seal. However, the envelope refused to open, and she pulled ineffectually at it, trying to tear it apart. Neville reached into his pocket to hand her his new silver knife, but it kept slipping off the parchment. Written across it several times in exceedingly neat handwriting were the words:_Highly Confidential: by order of The Minister for Magic_. Neville noticed Mr Weasley's lip curling as he reached out his wand to tap the letter. The envelope flew open and several thickly wadded pages shot out and unfolded themselves onto the table.

_Dear Miss Abbott,_

the letter began,

_First of all, allow me to say what a pleasure it was to have, albeit for a short space of time, such a willing and dedicated young witch on the payroll in Magical Law Enforcement. As I'm sure you can appreciate, my former department still holds a special place in my heart. I feel sure you will have many more opportunities to prove yourself an invaluable asset to the important work carried out within the Ministry of Magic in years to come. _

Hannah raised her eyebrows, her own lip curling as these words sank in, but she read on, shifting the page to a slightly different angle, so that Neville could read over her shoulder more easily.

_As you know, several weeks ago it was brought to my attention that before beginning work in the Misuse department, you were yourself a victim by association of one of the most pernicious campaigns of Muggle-baiting in recent times. It is with great sadness that I must now relay to you the news that the person indirectly responsible for your mother's untimely death has finally been brought to justice. While it remains unclear exactly why your mother would have elected to drive her vehicle into the path of an oncoming articulated lorry, we do now know that the driver of said lorry was at that moment under the Imperius Curse. _

_Following delicate reconstruction of the driver's memory, it has now come to light that Mr Michael Harding, of Flat 125, Tredinnick Tower, Whitechapel, London had been ordered to drive off a nearby roadbridge, in an attempt to trigger a multiple car pile-up on the M62 motorway. The wizard responsible for planning the attack, a professional heavy goods driver by the name of Ernie Prang is, it further transpires, a prominent supporter of He Who Must Not Be Named. We are extremely relieved to have captured the final member of a particularly dangerous cell of conspirators, responsible for an unknown number of vicious crimes against wizards and Muggles alike. Prang is currently languishing in the wizarding prison at Azkaban awaiting trial for manslaughter and the malicious use of an Unforgivable Curse. If it is of any comfort, I suggest remembering your mother as having performed, however inadvertently, a selfless act in preventing the deaths of many innocent people._

Hannah looked up, her expression puzzled and angry. "But … this can't possibly be true, Mr Weasley," she said. "What about the traffic lights?" Her voice rose in outrage. "This still makes it sound like my mum tried to kill herself!"

Arthur Weasley said nothing. Neville's godfather nodded briefly. "Read the rest of it, both of you. Then we'll explain."

_After careful consideration by the Wizengamot, it has been agreed that while it is not strictly necessary to communicate to you the wider circumstances surrounding your mother's death, this additional information may allow you put past tragedy behind you, and move on with your life. I understand that your father has made a new start, and we feel that it is important for you to do the same. Therefore, I must impress upon you the need to search your own heart for the truth regarding your mother's emotional state at the time of her death, and not go searching for magical explanations for her actions, which will undoubtedly prove frustrating, increasing the pain of your tragic bereavement in the long run. _

_Furthermore, in the interests of national security, it is vital that you do not to attempt to visit Mr Harding again, or contact him in any way. This would constitute a breach of the Statute of Secrecy, and leave you liable to prosecution. You will, I'm sure, be delighted to learn that he has been completely cured, and it has now been possible to reunite him with his wife and child. _

Hannah looked at Neville, her eyes blazing. "They've wiped his memory again, to shut him up." She turned her gaze fiercely on Uncle Arnie. "_Haven't_ you?"

"Rest assured, my dear," he replied in the self-satisfied voice of a job well done. "the Obliviation was carried out properly this time. Besides, the man wanted it … knew what he was asking for. He's perfectly happy now." As he completed his well-worn little speech, the plump wizard seemed to deflate slightly, withering under the contemptuous glance Hannah threw at him. Neville felt a bit sorry for his godfather.

"But Hannah," he said gently. "If he's been reunited with his family, that's good isn't it?" She turned back to him. His gambit seemed to have worked. She no longer looked furiously angry, but confused.

"His – his wife and child?" she said wonderingly. "Oh, look, Neville, the address!" She jabbed her finger at the paragraph they had just read.

"Er … what about it?"

"Whitechapel," she said excitedly. "That's where I went with – with Mr Perkins that time. His son must be the Danny Harding I met there. It's the same place, I'm sure it is. I remember the number of the flat."

"The place with the water piston, you mean? The same as the one I saw in the kitchen in Hartlepool …"

"Yes, you were right," she said slowly. "The two _were_ connected. But how … I don't understand. Did this Ernie Prang make _them_ too? But no, that doesn't make any sense …"

"I think we're getting a little ahead of ourselves." Neville and Hannah broke off their whispered conversation at Mr Weasley's interruption. "We've promised you a full explanation, Hannah, and you'll get one. But first, I'd like you to finish reading that letter, so you have the – er – _facts_ at your disposal and you can make a decision about how you want to proceed. But Arnie's right you know. It is best for the man that he has his life back, as far as possible unchanged from what it was before he was callously exploited and manipulated into a crime that was not his fault." Mr Weasley had regained his light and easy, but nonetheless authoritative manner.

Hannah appeared ready to begin arguing again. "How can he have_wanted_ to have his mind altered," she demanded, "when he didn't know what he was asking for? It's just the same as what _he_ did – this Ernie Prang or whoever he is …"

"No, it's not the same. Not the same thing at all." Mr Weasley's gaze held Hannah's steadily. "You have studied Defence Against the Dark Arts, I believe?" Eventually, she dropped her eyes.

"OK, I – I do see it's different. I'm – I'm sorry, Mr Peasegood."

"Think nothing of it m'dear. Can't offend me, you know."

Neville and Hannah bent their heads over the Minister's letter once again.

_It is with further sadness that I regret to inform you of the sudden death of your former immediate superior in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, Mr Basil Perkins. Following seventy years of tireless service to the Ministry, Mr Perkins, who was due to retire next spring, collapsed while standing guard duty over Mr Harding in the Hester Truelove ward at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Despite the best efforts of the Healers, owing to Mr Perkins' considerable age and the fact that he was severely weakened by a sudden flare-up of a dormant case of Spattergroit, they were unable to revive him, and he was pronounced dead at 4.45pm, Thursday 7th August, 1997. _

They stared at each other. "He didn't look ill to me," said Hannah, looking confused again.

"No – oo," Neville agreed. Nothing in the Minister's story was making any sense to him. "He wasn't standing guard then either. We were all thrown out of the ward at ten past four. I looked at my watch. And he was nowhere to be seen when we left the Spell Damage Corridor, and that was at least half an hour later. Unless he went back in for some reason."

Hannah clutched his arm. "You don't think … all those people clustered round the bed … we wouldn't have seen Mr Perkins if he'd fallen over … but they didn't look anything _like_ Healers. We thought they were the Aurors come to interview Mr Harding, remember?"

He nodded, trying to remember the scene he'd glimpsed for only a second through the round window of the Hester Truelove Ward. Hannah shoved her hair off her forehead, in a gesture of impatience. Neville could tell she was getting angry again but was keeping a tight rein on her temper. "What's going on, Mr Weasley?" she asked, politely enough. "You said he was _murdered_. This letter's a pack of lies!"

Mr Weasley gave a twisted smile. "It seems as though the Minister's sources have failed him a little. I believe he thinks you left the scene well before the incident. He also, fortunately, has no idea about your excursion to retrieve the magical traces from the glass on the traffic light. He believes Neville simply went to find Mr Harding on some foolish and misguided effort to glean any scrap of additional information about the accident that might comfort you."

And that wasn't a million miles from the truth, thought Neville, feeling like a complete dope all over again.

"He is quite secure in the knowledge that owing to the driver's false memory of the accident, at no time did either you or Hannah glean any information that might contradict the official version of events."

"And we intend for it to stay that way," interjected Uncle Arnie, speaking for the first time in several minutes, shooting a decidedly annoyed look at his godson.

"Read the rest of the letter, would you? I'd really rather get this bit over and done with."

_An intelligent young woman such as yourself, Miss Abbott, will by now have inferred that this leaves an opening for the permanent position of Head of Misuse of Muggle Artefacts in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Despite your relative lack of experience, given your performance in the initial tests at interview, it is felt that you would be the perfect candidate to take over the reins. _

_If you are able to accept the position, please report to the Personnel Office on Monday, 3rd September, and they will make the necessary arrangements for your upgrade to MLE Operative Level One and a Half. They will need details of your Gringott's Vault for the corresponding increase in your salary to be paid, effective immediately. You and your father will also be handsomely compensated for the distress and suffering caused by the protracted nature of the enquiry into the circumstances surrounding your mother's accident. I hope you will appreciate that our tireless work behind the scenes has been worth the wait, and your mind is now completely at rest. _

_Given the delicately balanced nature of the current domestic situation, I would greatly appreciate your cooperation in providing your reaction to the Ministry's uncovering of this lethal plot and subsequent foiling of more large-scale Muggle-baiting incidents, in an article to be published in the Daily Prophet within the next few weeks. Barnabus Cuffe, editor in chief, will be in touch with you to set up an interview. _

_I would be grateful if you would look over the attached magical contract and return it, signed, to my representative in this matter, Mr Percy Weasley, Junior Assistant to the Minister. I must impress upon you that the details of this contract remain classified as a matter of national security. _

_Yours truly,_

Rufus Scrimgeour _(Minister for Magic)_

Hannah flicked through the remaining sheets, not reading them properly. "He wants to buy my silence," she said slowly. "Mr Weasley – why is the Minister going to all this trouble? And why have you given me back that piece of glass?"

"Ernie Prang never killed Hannah's mum," said Neville firmly. "He's Gran's second cousin. I can't believe they've chucked him in Azkaban as well as Stan Shunpike. She's going to go spare."

"Try not to worry about it too much, lad," interjected Uncle Arnie. "He's probably safer there than anywhere else. By all accounts, the place isn't as bad as it used to be now the Dementors have abandoned it. And he's got plenty of company."

"The reason I gave you back the glass, Hannah, is because we … that is Mr Peasegood and I … er – _hope_ you will feel able to accept this deal." Neville and Hannah goggled at Mr Weasley. "As to why the Minister is taking such a personal interest in this case … well … that's why we've invited you here today. We intend to tell you the full, unvarnished truth. And then, you may decide for yourself whether or not you want to take the job, and the money, and keep the real story to yourself, at least for now."

"Never!" declared Hannah passionately. "If there's been some sort of cover up, they shouldn't be allowed to get away with it." The Minister's sham of a letter had reawakened all the anger and confusion she thought she'd managed to bury for good.

Neville nodded his head firmly in agreement. "The monster who killed Hannah's mum should be brought to justice."

There was a lengthy pause. "That's the problem you see," Mr Weasley eventually replied. "The person responsible is already in custody. Nothing to do with your mother's accident." The friendly voice hardened. "They are not even to be punished for the killing of my old friend and colleague, Perkins." For a moment, gentle Mr Weasley sounded almost frighteningly angry. "And you're right: it's not Ernie Prang. The guilty party is a witch, in fact." He sighed, his voice merely weary again. "Someone I used to know rather well, I'm afraid to say … my first boss actually. Her name is Alcina Noone."


	18. Watching

_Thanks to Suburban House Elf for the beta, and to Mullvaney and Anya for pre-reading. Thanks also to those of you still reading. Eighteen down, one more to go!_

Chapter Eighteen – Watching 

"Alcina …" Hannah had turned greyish-white and looked as though she might slip off the stool she was sitting on.

"We saw her there, at St. Mungo's," explained Neville. His own face grew hot as anger surged through him, thinking about the way the elegant, scented witch had laughed and joked with Mr Perkins. The memory churned his stomach, making him feel sick.

"I know you did, lad," said Uncle Arnie, frowning heavily. "You shouldn't have been anywhere near that Muggle. As for letting this little girl in there … I don't know what you or Perkins were thinking. What did I tell you before about taking stupid risks?"

"I – I was just waiting for Hannah and visiting Mum and Dad … I didn't mean to …" Neville stumbled, now burning with guilt. "I'm sorry …"

"Leave him alone," said Hannah suddenly, with asperity. She had colour in her cheeks again. "He's not my keeper. And I'm not a _little girl_." Neville shrank down in his seat. Hannah was getting on with his godfather even worse than she had with Gran to begin with."How did you know we ran into her?" she demanded.

Uncle Arnie, however, was eyeing Hannah with amused respect. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small crystal phial. "Because of this. Old Perkins' memory of the last hour of his life. We – that is Arthur and me – were first on the scene you see, along with Gawain Robards and his team.

"Head of the Auror Office," interjected Mr Weasley, noticing Neville and Hannah's puzzled glances.

"He was going to perform Legilimency on the Muggle," Uncle Arnie continued. "Try and get at the underlying memory of the accident. I was there to extract the false one safely and keep the man calm, stop him getting too frightened when it was all going on."

"I was just there to watch," said Mr Weasley. "Basil tipped me off, he knew I'd be interested. We saw it happen." He unfolded his long legs from where they were cramped under the tiny table and stood up. "I watched my friend die," he said grimly. "And now, it's time for the two of you to see and hear it too. But not here."

"Where are we going?" asked Neville.

"My office," replied his godfather. "No one'll disturb us there. But we need to do this on the QT." He drained his Butterbeer and heaved himself to his feet. "No one must see the four of us together. You'll need to make your own way to the Visitor's Entrance. Do you know how to find it?"

"N – no," said Neville. "I've only ever been there by – by …" He wasn't sure if it was a good idea to remind his godfather of his last visit to the Ministry, given the mood he was in.

"It's OK," Hannah broke in. "I know the stop on the tube map."

"Good g— " Uncle Arnie stumbled and changed what he'd been about to say. "I mean, excellent. Arthur and I'll be along once you've had time to get inside the Ministry."

As they all walked towards the exit onto Charing Cross Road, Mr Weasley turned to Hannah. "We thought you could use the excuse that you're collecting the last of your things from the Misuse department." His expression tightened for a second. "If word gets back to the Minister's Office, his assistant is bound to assume that you're considering the promotion, and have come to inspect your new domain."

"Once you're inside, don't go anywhere near Level Two," continued Uncle Arnie. "Head straight for my office. You know where you're going, don't you, lad?" Neville nodded seriously.

"We'll give you half an hour or so, then Arthur and I will Apparate directly to the Entrance Hall as we normally would."

"What are you going to do until then?" asked Neville in puzzlement.

"Shake off whoever the Minister sent to tail me while I delivered his letter," Mr Weasley replied, looking up and down the busy street.

"And drag me into some Muggle troll-like shops while we're at it, apparently," said Uncle Arnie.

"The word is electronic." There was still an edge to Mr Weasley's voice, but whether it was anger or simple impatience, Neville couldn't tell. "Come on Arnie, Tottenham Court Road's this way."

Neville and Hannah arrived at Obliviator Headquarters without mishap. The vestibule, where the memory modification teams congregated when they weren't out on assignments, was empty. Long work benches lined the laboratory-like space, each with its wooden rack for quills, measuring compasses and temporary wand storage. Most were piled high with scrolls on which could be glimpsed abstruse Arithmantic calculations. Hanging the length of one wall were charts of every county of the British Isles, labelled with charmed squares resembling flags flashing all the colours of the rainbow. Years ago, on Neville's very first visit, Uncle Arnie had carefully explained the complicated system, how the colour scheme depended on the scale and status of the magical accident or catastrophe. As a little boy, he hadn't taken in a single word, completely overawed by the hordes of tall men in black cloaks and the noisy air of purpose and urgency surrounding him.

From a distance the maps appeared to be alive, crawling with movement like a brick wall covered in tiny red money spiders. Up close, it was possible to see the Muggle inhabitants of every town or village in minute detail, going about their daily lives. On the opposite wall were similar charts depicting wizarding Britain. However, these were far blanker, and showed no activity, the approximate position of known wizarding locations inked in with an ordinary quill. Neville remembered asking innocently why the maps were different, and how his godfather had swelled with indignation. "A matter of principle, lad," he'd boomed impressively, while Neville cowered and hid his face in Gran's skirts. "We don't track the movements of our own kind, not in this department any road. People put concealment spells and protections on their dwellings and lands with good reason, and we respect that in M.A.C. How would it be if it were to get out that the seat of government had the whole wizarding population under surveillance? There'd be an outcry. No, these maps are just for reference."

He'd lifted Neville up and pointed to an area near the top of one map marked 'Hogwarts'. "That's where you'll be going off to school in a few years time, son. If you get in, that is." Neville remembered bursting into tears at that, and how his godfather and all the other Obliviators had roared with laughter, while Gran scolded him for being a cry-baby. "Don't mind me, kid," Uncle Arnie had said. "You'll get your magic soon. You're a Longbottom aren't you? Next best thing to being a Peasegood."

Neville smiled, as he recalled Gran's outraged expression. Later on that day she'd taken him for his first ever ice cream at Florian Fortescue's, and made very sure her grandson understood that _nothing_ was better than being a Longbottom. It had been not long after Grandad died, a good day that stood out in isolation from an otherwise sad and lonely time. He remembered how strange it had felt to be just him and his grandmother, for once without any of the other Longbottom relatives hanging around, prodding him and talking about him as though he weren't even in the room. He'd tucked into his ice cream, a little confused as to how he'd ended up eating something delicious in a warm place that smelled of sugar, instead of drinking stewed tea in a boring hospital ward with the sickly, antiseptic stench of potions in the air. It had been the day Gran had explained properly about his parents. Before then, they'd just been the grown ups who lived at the hospital and never had to wash their faces or get dressed like Neville had to every morning – strangers he'd been taught to call Mum and Dad, even though they rarely talked to him and never cuddled him. She'd told him for the first time how much he had to live up to, and that she knew he'd make her proud one day. He wondered briefly whether his grandmother remembered the conversation, then put the question aside.

He led Hannah to the far end of the room and knocked on the door of his godfather's luxurious office. There was no answer, but on trying the handle he found that it was open, and they let themselves in. As their feet sank into the thick carpet, Neville stared, taken aback by the changes in the room's appearance. "What are all these?" he said wonderingly. He hadn't been to visit his godfather at work since before the beginning of the war. In addition to the familiar low, locked cupboards lining all four walls, new shelves had been fitted that reached almost to the ceiling. On the nearest shelf were a number of shallow basins of various sizes. Some were plain, rough-hewn stone and others more ornate, such as one smaller example in deepest, purest jade. Crowded onto every other shelf were little crystal bottles like the one Uncle Arnie had shown them in the pub, all carefully labelled. They were catalogued and organised as neatly as Professor Sprout's seed store and all had a strange silvery-white substance swirling around in them. The liquid glow reminded him a little of the glass orbs in the Hall of Prophecy. Fascinated, he took one down to read. _Elspeth Hargeaves, Truro, July 10__th__, 1996, roof of house removed by giant_.

"Ah," said his godfather, closing the door carefully behind Mr Weasley and sealing it. "Yes, I'll be running out of storage space again soon. Put it back exactly as you found it Neville, if you don't mind." He lifted one of the plainer, larger basins and placed it on the boardroom table in the middle of the room. "This is a Pensieve," he began briskly. "Does that word mean anything to you?" He paused, as though Neville and Hannah were two of his trainees. They shook their heads. "Extremely delicate piece of apparatus. When we get in there, there'll be no need to talk, or move about. Don't want anything messing up this memory. Vital evidence. There'll be nothing standing between Arthur and me getting locked up in Azkaban as traitors if we're found out and something's happened to damage it. Robards'd most likely throw away the key on you two an' all, seeing as you're both overage."

Neville caught Hannah's eye. She looked more interested than frightened. He did his best to breathe calmly and persuade his thudding heart to slow down. "That understood?" Uncle Arnie barked. They nodded vigorously.

"You two can go together, seeing as it's your first time. Touch your face to the surface, and the Pensieve'll do the rest. I'll be close behind. Arthur, will you stay here and stand guard?"

"Of course," said Mr Weasley. "I was there at the end. I don't need to see the rest. To be perfectly honest," he finished sadly, "I'd rather not. He was a good friend, old Basil."

They watched as Uncle Arnie produced the little vial again, uncorked it and poured the swirling substance into the Pensieve. "Go on, lad," he said. "You know what to do."

Gripping Hannah's hand tightly, Neville stepped forward and looked into the memory. He could make out nothing. For some reason, he took a deep breath before leaning forward. To his astonishment, as soon as he put his face into the bowl, he felt his feet leave the floor and he began to fall down and down, with the sinking feeling of falling in dreams. He tried not to panic, concentrating on Hannah's warm and familiar hand in his, when he felt himself touch down and realised he was standing once more in the Hester Truelove ward. Adjusting to the magic, he noticed immediately that they'd arrived at the point where Perkins had seen Hannah's face appear through the round porthole of the doors into the ward. He watched the Neville in the memory wheel round, as she burst through the double doors and walked towards the bedside. He felt the real Hannah flinch next to him. "This is so strange," she murmured. "Do I really go as red as that?" He didn't answer, feeling her arm tremble against his and realising she was as scared as he was. Whistling in the dark, Gran called it.

"I don't think we need to see the whole thing," came Uncle Arnie's voice. He was standing behind the two of them. Neville hoped his godfather was making note of the fact that his other self was at least _trying_ to get the Pensieve Hannah away from the ward. "I'll have to leave the two of you here on your own for a moment. Stay where you are, and _don't move_." He disappeared.

Something very strange started happening around them. The people in Perkins' memory began to speed up in jerky fragments. Neville thought he heard Hannah mutter something that sounded like "fast-forward." A moment later, he was watching Pye stride towards the group around the bed, looking decidedly fed up. Then they were all leaving. In a second or two, Pye had finished with the lorry driver and was also leaving the ward, presumably heading for his break. "Come on," whispered Hannah. "I want to see what that woman said to Mr Perkins to get him to come back in." She tugged his hand and pointed in the direction of the corridor.

"Uncle Arnie said to stay here," he protested weakly. He really didn't feel like being on the receiving end of his godfather's ire for a second time that afternoon. It was too late anyway, the action had slowed down to a normal pace again and Perkins and the witch were on their way back into the ward. Uncle Arnie's heavy bulk had rematerialised behind them. Neville was extremely glad he hadn't shuffled even one foot in any direction.

He looked more closely at the old wizard as he approached the bed. Only now did he notice that Perkins' eyes were slightly glazed. It _was_ a spell of some kind. "_What if _…? he wondered to himself. Something slotted into place in his mind. "Hannah, you don't suppose …" he said aloud. "It couldn't be one of those Cooperation Spells of yours …?"

"Oh no!" Hannah gasped as she watched Perkins sink back into the armchair by Mike's bed, smiling and nodding happily at the sight of Alcina Noone holding out her fruit basket.

He heard a loud "Shh!" behind his head, and Neville concentrated on the scene in front of him again.

"Sweetheart, is it really you?" he heard the lorry driver say. "You came back!"

Neville's mind wandered again. It seemed like the worst thing of all, that the old wizard had been snared by one of his own spells. He wondered if Mr Weasley knew.

"We must get you out here my darling …" the witch was saying. "You'll be much better back home, you know."

"I dunno, love,' replied the lorry driver in a shaky voice. "They said they'll fix me. I won't get those funny dreams, and I'll know why I can't drive any more."

"What did I tell you before? Those dreams are a lot of nonsense. As for driving …" Alcina Noone gave a tinkling laugh. "Why would you want to work when I have plenty for both of us, and lots and lots more lovely money when I sell my inventions? I have my new one here, Mickey, would you like to see it?"

"All – all right then," said the lorry driver hesitantly. "Is it like the thing I had off you for Danny's birthday present?"

"The prototype you _stole_ from my workshop you mean, you naughty thing. No, this is much, much better."

"Inventions, Alcina?" asked Perkins. "That sounds delightful."

"Oh it _is_," replied the witch. There was an ugly look on her face and she didn't seem as glamorous as Neville remembered. That must have been a spell too. No wonder Hannah had looked wobbly on her feet when they'd been out in the corridor with all that going on. Alcina Noone had to be a really powerful witch.

"The Ministry will be absolutely _falling over themselves_ to buy my inventions," she went on. "I'm going to be so, so rich. I won't need the crumbs those idiots throw me from their table ever again. I'll give them Misuse of Muggle Artefacts!" With that announcement, she started pulling bunches of grapes and bananas from her basket and dumping them onto the bed. "Here's my new baby," she said, her voice dripping with pride.

Neville craned forward as she held up a small, slender object made out of silvery-coloured metal. "What's that?" he whispered.

"It's a pen torch," replied Hannah. Her face was set and tightly-drawn into lines of misery. "Wake up, Mr Perkins. Please wake up," she muttered. Neville couldn't bring himself to remind her that nothing now could save her ex-boss.

"What do you think? Stylish, unobstrusive, adaptable … didn't even register a blip at the entrance to the hospital."

"Oh, it's lovely," said Mike. "What does it do?"

"Would you like me to demonstrate?" She gave a girlish giggle.

"Yeah, go on then." The lorry driver yawned. Neville remembered the Draught of Peace Pye had administered and was surprised that the man had stayed awake as long as this. "Why don't you make it knock that old biddy's funny hat off?" he said sleepily, pointing at a patient in the opposite bed.

"I think I can do better than that. All I need to do is switch it on. No spoken or wordless spells needed, no messy blast of magic … The power source and the inbuilt spells do everything. Death … in a tiny, lethal, untraceable package."

Noone's voice was loving, as she caressed the smooth surface of the strange device. The way she describedwhat it did reminded Neville a bit of Auror Tonks' knife, the one she'd inherited from her dad. But no, he thought. That knife had the creator's signature all over it. It was honest, like his lawn mower, a tool not a weapon.

"Marvellous." Neville heard Perkins's gentle voice for the first time in several minutes. "I always said you had an amazing talent for Muggle technology, Alcina."

The glazed look appeared to be gone at last. Hannah had hidden her face in Neville's shoulder, and he gave her a gentle nudge. She should witness her boss's moment of heroism. He could see Perkins hand slowly creeping towards the inside pocket of his robe. Noone didn't appear to have noticed that anything in the old man's voice or demeanour had changed.

"Never got me anywhere though did it?" The witch's shoulders slumped, a little more of the glamour slipping away. Her hair was now greyish-brown and greasy, her face wrinkled and leathery. "Years I worked in that dump. Every department under the sun. Moving every six months to a new '_clerical_' or '_assistant_' job, watching people with no flair or ambition get promoted over me. Why not me, eh? Why wasn't it ever my turn?" She glowered at Perkins. "I'll tell you! It was because I couldn't _buy_ my way to the top with Galleons from the family vault, or get there on daddy's coat tails."

"Now, now, Alcina," Mr Perkins said comfortably. Even though he was disagreeing with her, his tone was cajoling, indulgent, still managing to sound like the most cooperative person alive. "Is that quite fair? We've talked about this before. Plenty of good people at the Ministry. Yes, indeed. Look at my old boss, for example. No one could ever accuse Arthur Weasley of buying his way to the top."

"Hardly Minister for Magic, though is he?" Her voice fell into a singsong, grumbling pattern. "But that was the last straw. Head of Detection and Confiscation should have been _mine_. I'm at the peak of my powers, but of course _I_ never got an interview. The man didn't even want the job. He'd have been happy to tinker with kettles and toasters for the rest of his days."

"True, very true," agreed Perkins.

"And I should know," she went on, getting into her stride. "Don't forget it was me who gave him his first break … when he was wet behind the ears and Misuse was taken seriously. I ran that department single-handed with six people under me, including you, you hapless old soak. At least Weasley was keen, I'll give him that. Eighteen years old, saddled with a parasite of a wife, and the first of Merlin knows how many of his pure-blood babies cluttering up the place every time she descended on the office with another bloody _cake_. Patronising cow. She'd have done better to roll up her sleeves and get a job." Noone sat back in her chair, holding out her hands expansively, inviting Perkins' to agree with her. She popped a grape into her mouth and began to chew it noisily.

"Now, now," he replied soothingly. Neville was impressed. The old man was doing an excellent job of distracting her by encouraging the flood of bitchy nostalgia. No wonder his godfather hadn't wanted Mr Weasley hearing any of this. The pen torch thingy lay forgotten on the blanket and the lorry driver appeared to have fallen into a deep sleep. "You know the Ministry crèche is well beyond the means of a young couple just starting out. Molly Weasley had no choice but to stay at home with the children. A fine woman, yes, a very fine woman."

"You're a man, Basil, you would say that. I used to catch you staring at her backside. No one _has_ to have seven children. What did she think she was playing at – single-handedly saving the wizarding world from extinction?"

Noone cackled loudly, spitting the pips into her hand and dropping them on the floor. "She couldn't be content with turning that third boy into mummy's good little girl, no. She had to carry on until she got a real one. And now look at the way things have turned out. Just one more little toad doing exactly as he's told, lapping up anything he's given and asking for more."

"Ah well, you're quite right there. Still, you can't deny that dear Molly gives her all to her family, now can you? She works very hard." Perkins was still smiling and nodding away.

"You're such an old softie, Basil. I always thought so. Haven't the eldest two buggered off to jobs overseas? Can't say as I blame them. I'd want to get as far away from the woman as possible."

Neville watched the wizard bring his wand arm down by his side in a defensive position, so that it was hidden from view. "I'm not sure I see your point, Alcina." His other hand, resting on the arm of his chair, was trembling slightly. The witch looked at him sharply.

_Please don't lose it now_, Neville thought futilely. Hannah was gripping his elbow so tightly it was almost painful. He could hear Perkins struggle to keep his voice light and agreeable. "Then again, I suppose one could say that Molly runs a tight ship. Oh, indeed. Just like you did, Alcina," he said. He was still doing his best to sound ingratiating, but it was too late.

"Until they took it away from me." The witch's hand snaked out and grabbed the torch lying on the bedclothes. "Don't think I won't do it!" She twisted the top of the metal object and a pinprick of light shone from the end. "Careful, now." She pointed the torch into the sleeping man's face. "You can't stop me. They're not going to care what I've done, not this time, not when they see what I can do. I've killed before you know, more than once."

"Yes, I do know," Perkins said quietly. "But you're not going to kill again."

"Oh, not _yet,_ perhaps. I think I'll take my time, give this one a proper test. You can't stop me," she repeated. "All I have to do is will it, and the weapon will do the rest."

Neville felt a tap on his arm and his eyes followed the direction in which Hannah was pointing. Through the window in the door to the ward, he could see motherly Healer Strout's face peering in, her eyes and mouth rounded in shock. He watched her back away fearfully, looking from side to side, and then she disappeared.

The pinprick of light coming from the object intensified. The lorry driver didn't wake but began to draw long, rattling breaths. "Interesting," the witch muttered to herself. She dropped the device, reaching out to lift one of the man's eyelids, as though examining him. Perkins made a lunge for the torch. "Oh no, you don't," Noone said, in a chillingly matter-of-fact voice, snatching it away and looking around the ward, as though deciding where to point it next. As the light became brighter and brighter, Perkins acted again.

"_Expelliarmus_!" he cried, bringing his wand arm into view in a swift and accurate movement. But the torch didn't fly away across the floor.

"No good, old man," said Noone, coldly triumphant. "It's working on its own now. I can control it with a thought. It's time I showed the world what I can do. I'm going to turn it on you first. Then I might track down that girl whose mother was such a very useful guinea pig for my proof of concept and point it at her. As soon as I've finished _this_ little experiment." She trained the torch on the lorry driver again. With a cry, Perkins made a dive across the bed into the path of the beam of light. At that moment, there was a loud crash, and the double doors of the ward burst open. Ten wizards in dark Ministry robes ran in, Uncle Arnie and a craggy-faced man out in front. The balding pate of Mr Weasley could be discerned looming at the back of the group.

"_Incarcerous!_" Noone made no attempt to fight back, dropping the torch on the bed as snakelike ropes shot out of three wands simultaneously to wrap themselves around her, binding her arms to her sides.

Neville and Hannah watched in despair as two Aurors swiftly searched for her wand. "Williamson, Savage, take this woman to Headquarters," the craggy-faced man commanded. "Keep her restrained, tell the Minister an arrest has been made, but do nothing else until I arrive." In an incredibly short space of time, Alcina Noone was bundled away by the burly operatives.

The torch lay ignored where it had fallen. It swung from side to side in a slow arc, seemingly at random. However, every second or two its beam was intercepted by the motionless body of the elderly wizard who was slumped across the legs of the Muggle he had tried to save. Despite what Uncle Arnie had said about the lorry driver being as right as rain, Neville couldn't imagine that either of them had survived such a sustained assault.

"Oh, why don't they _notice_?" cried Hannah in an agonised voice.

Mr Weasley had finally managed to struggle his way to the front of the knot of people surrounding the bed. "You fools!" he cried, drawing his wand and using it to still the torch's wildly swinging circles. "Tonks! Shacklebolt! Help me, _now_," he ordered. "This device needs to be made inert. Where are the other Healers?"

Mrs Strout was hovering over the lorry driver, as though she had no idea what to do. "Arnie, go and find someone competent, for Merlin's sake. I think they're both still breathing."

Auror Tonks, her hair as shockingly pink as the morning she'd turned up in Gran's fireplace, pushed her way through from the back of the crowd. "Incantation?" she demanded, drawing her wand with cool efficiency.

"_Petrificus Inanimatus_."

A second Auror, whose shiny black head was balder that Mr Weasley's joined them in pointing their wands at the innocent-looking object at the foot of the bed. The beam shivered, broke and came back on again, only to fade through white, to yellow, then to a faint red that hardly gave off any light at all. Finally, it died.

Immediately, Mr Weasley turned to his former colleague, still lying across the bed. He took Perkins in his arms and laid him gently on the floor, crouching down to listen to his breathing and check his pulse. This time, it was Hannah's turn to nudge Neville. "Look," she said. "It's us again."

Neville tore his eyes away from the scene immediately in front of him. He was just in time to see their faces recede from view, as the Pensieve Neville and Hannah walked away from the window at the entrance to the ward. He wondered how the magic could work, when Perkins was lying apparently unconscious on the ground. He shrugged. What did it matter now?

The Uncle Arnie in the memory re-entered the ward at a run, a Healer in tow. Mrs Strout had finally taken charge of the lorry driver, who appeared to be waking up. "Pye, thank God," said Mr Weasley. "Can you bring him back?"

"Hello, Arthur. Long time no see." The young Healer stooped quickly and began to make delicate passes with his wand over Perkins' head and chest. He held two fingers to the old man's neck, head on one side, eyes narrowed in concentration. With his other hand, he pointed his wand at the wizard's heart. A soft, blue jet of light passed from it and sank into the body on the floor without leaving a trace behind. Pye put his ear to Perkins' chest, then spoke. "I'm terribly sorry. I've done what I can to make him comfortable. He is aware of what's happening, and able to hear us, but I doubt he'll open his eyes, or speak again. It's a matter of minutes, I'm afraid."

Mr Weasley knelt on the floor, and took his old friend's hand, his face pale and stricken. Tonks put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Arthur," she said. For the next few minutes, Neville and Hannah watched and listened as Mr Weasley talked to Perkins in a gentle, soothing, almost automatic way. Pye and Tonks had greeted each other and were now speaking quietly together, but Neville couldn't tear his attention away from the dying man on the floor. Hannah gave a choking gasp, as though struggling not to cry out loud. It wouldn't have mattered. No one was aware of their presence, or could hear any sound they made.

Eventually, the Uncle Arnie in the memory walked round the bed, crouching down so that he could speak to Mr Weasley without being overheard. "The Muggle's going to make it. Robards has made arrangements to come back tomorrow to get the memory. But do you see what I see?" He nodded at the craggy-faced Head Auror, who was turning something small and silver over in his gnarled, scarred hands, fascination and awe written in every line of his body. Neville could tell he was agog with curiosity.

"He'll be taking that thing to show his mate Scrimgeour before the day's out," said a low, rumbling voice. It was the Auror Mr Weasley had addressed as Shacklebolt.

"Kingsley's right," Tonks concurred, breaking off her conversation and turning towards her colleague. "We won't be seeing it again, any more than we've seen that plastic toy since it disappeared from the evidence cupboard."

A look passed between Mr Weasley and Uncle Arnie. "Do it," said Mr Weasley in a low voice, getting to his feet and standing back, his tall frame shielding his stockier friend from view. "Before it's too late."

With one eye on Robards, the Head of the Obliviation Squad produced his wand and pressed the tip of it to Perkins' temple. As he pulled the wand away, a long, silvery something, as ephemeral as smoke, as concrete as cobweb, came with it. As the strand detached itself from Perkins' mind, Neville felt his feet leave the hard, tiled floor of the Hester Truelove ward, to land a second later back on the carpet of his godfather's office.


	19. History

Chapter Nineteen – History 

Hannah looked very small sitting in one of the wing chairs by the huge fireplace. Uncle Arnie, before installing himself in the other, had insisted on forcing a large brandy on both of them. Neville didn't like it as much as the Firewhiskey he'd had from Pye. Arthur Weasley was sitting opposite him, cross-legged on the hearth rug, his slightly unnerving resemblance to Ron making Neville feel almost as though he was back in the Gryffindor common room.

"Mr Peasegood," said Hannah quietly, "can I ask you a question?"

"Yes, my dear?" Uncle Arnie replied, a little warily.

"What did that woman mean when she said '_they_' took it all away from her?"

"Well, I could hazard a guess, but …" Neville's godfather indicated his friend. "Arthur's the man to answer that one."

Mr Weasley looked up from his contemplation of his tumbler. "You mean Noone?" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "There was a … problem with her work at the Ministry. When she headed up Misuse of Muggle Artefacts."

Hannah nodded. "She talked about that. But I didn't understand, because when Mr Perkins introduced her to us b – before … he said she used to be the Assistant under him, not the other way around."

"Oh, it was a long time ago now. As I said … she had a fall from grace. But I doubt she mentioned _that_."

"She – she said she'd killed already."

"So I understand. But she might have been referring to your mother when she said that, or to her own parents. The earlier incident _did_ result in a death, it's true. However, it was never thought to have been deliberate, or anything more than an unfortunate … blunder on Noone's part. There was even sympathy for her in some quarters."

"I don't understand," said Hannah, frowning.

Neville was grateful he didn't seem to be expected to join in the conversation. He was finding it hard enough even to listen. His mind kept being pulled back to the Hester Truelove ward, and the way Noone's horrible weapon had kept circling, throwing its beam across all the sick people in the ward before coming back to poison Perkins' inert and helpless body more deeply with every sweep of its innocent-looking yellow light.

Mr Weasley sighed. "I'll begin at the beginning. Perhaps it's not a bad idea to give you some idea of Noone's background, even though I can't say I enjoy talking about this particular episode. Policies in Misuse have changed over the years, for the better I hope."

"Of course they have," interrupted Uncle Arnie.

Mr Weasley gave a tired smile. "When I joined the department," he went on, "in cases where a Muggle had suffered a particularly _traumatic_ encounter with a bespelled object – one requiring minor Healing for example – it was common practice to administer something to calm the the victim down. It was thought to make the job easier, although the Muggle Liaison handbook had recently been updated with new guidelines recommending more appropriate methods of negotiation. Not out of respect, you understand, simply because someone had twigged that dosing people with potions left traces that might be detectable – by Muggle healers, for example. Personally, I never approved of the idea at all, probably because Perkins considered it crude, and almost always unnecessary. He came out with me on my earliest assignments, you see."

He gazed into the empty fireplace. "Basil was a great mentor," he continued. "Although he was rather overfond of extending the lunch hour, which got us into trouble on more than one occasion." His eyes glinted with mischief behind his glasses and, for a moment, the middle-aged wizard sounded like a much younger man. "But I digress. In our own work, we never resorted to a potion. For one thing, if the victim refused to drink, you risked upsetting them even more." He paused.

"It was well-known within the department when I joined that Alcina Noone could be quite … _forceful_ in her methods of encouraging people to accept what she was offering them. However, results were so good, her superiors turned a blind eye. Or so we thought. She had a brilliant mind, and it was widely assumed that she was on her way to the top of Magical Law Enforcement."

"No more brilliant than yours, Arthur," interjected Uncle Arnie staunchly.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Mr Weasley frowned and took a sip of his brandy. "The assignment in question involved a young woman who had inadvertently purchased a set of ordinary garden shears, illegally charmed to work on their own. As you will know, Hannah, the Muggle Protection Act states that sharp or otherwise dangerous household or garden implements may only be charmed, transfigured or otherwise altered by the supplier, and that …"

"Spells must be placed before purchase from a recognised wizarding outlet, and renewed only under terms of the manufacturer's guarantee," finished Hannah.

"Well remembered," said Mr Weasley, sounding impressed. Hands shaking slightly, Neville took a huge gulp of brandy, and nearly choked. No one _really_ bothered about all that, did they?

Without noticing anything untoward, Mr Weasley continued. "Anyway, this young woman had lost a toe. Not a problem in itself, of course, but she was in a lot of pain. She was also both understandably furious, and extremely confused. A dangerous combination, as you've probably already discovered." Hannah gave a heartfelt nod.

"Noone held her down using the Full Body Bind, completely against regulations of course, and then force fed her a Draught of Peace." He paused. "In the ordinary way, she might have received a slight rap over the knuckles, always supposing anyone had found out. However, on this occasion, the potion was not within date, and had strengthened to a dangerous concentration. This, combined with the shock of the body bind, caused the girl to fall into a stupor, and she died within a few minutes."

Mr Weasley got up and walked away from the group around the fireplace, finishing the story with his back to everyone. "Both Noone and her colleague attempted Ennervation. When that proved unsuccessful, she informed a higher authority immediately. Although from that moment on everything was done by the book, the damage was done. She was not helped by the testimony of the trainee who was with Noone at the time of the assignment." He sighed. "It was me. At the tribunal, I had to tell them that when the potion was administered Noone had used the words, '_This should shut her up for a good, long while.'_ When the girl failed to come round, she actually laughed and said,'_At least now I needn't bother growing her toe back'_. I was horrified at the time, as you can imagine, but I was convinced that her callous attitude must have been down to shock. Noone wasn't sacked, but she was removed from her position as Head of Department. Her career never recovered."

Neville wouldn't have dared say anything, but Hannah spoke up. "That would explain why she didn't seem to like you very much, Mr Weasley."

"No, that comes as little surprise. I succeeded her as Head of Misuse. Rather an early promotion for me, in the eyes of many."

"It was entirely deserved, old man," said Uncle Arnie gruffly. "Perfectly obvious you were the best candidate to anyone with the slightest idea about the work."

"Still, one always questions …" Mr Weasley cut himself off, shaking his head impatiently. "After Noone's demotion and transfer out of MLE – I believe she went to the Pest Advisory Board initially – she became very bitter and … vocal in her criticisms. Blamed me for running the department down. Perhaps she had a point. Within a few years, only Perkins and I were left."

"Now, that's a load of rubbish, Arthur, and you know it," said Uncle Arnie bracingly. "It was death by a thousand cuts. If it hadn't been for you working tirelessly to keep Muggle rights on the Ministerial agenda all these years, there wouldn't even _be _a Misuse department anymore."

"I could have done more …"

"You held out as long as you could. I told you, didn't I, how before this lass joined, they were trying to hive off the whole operation onto us lot in Accidents and Catastrophes?" He drained his tumbler. "Completely useless at the Liaison aspect, most of my Obliviators. They're not interested in the small stuff, once they get into the Squad. Distancing themselves as fast as possible from sitting on committees and coming up with Muggle-worthy excuses."

Uncle Arnie went over to the table on which the Pensieve was still sitting. He uncorked the top of the brandy bottle and poured himself another generous snifter. "Never mind that madwoman and her dodgy methods," he grumbled. "Things are as bad, if not worse, across the board these days. More and more young lads with no subtlety and no idea how to cast a Memory Charm without using all their brute strength. I'm glad I'm due for early retirement in a few years, I can tell you, if any of us do survive this damned war." He sighed heavily.

Like Neville, Mr Weasley was only nursing his brandy. He picked up his glass and rotated it in his hands. "Alcina Noone turned into one of those people one hopes not to encounter in the lift," he said. "A malicious gossip, with a particularly vicious tongue. But I don't believe anyone at the Ministry suspected that over the years she had become … unhinged."

"She fooled Mr Perkins," said Hannah sadly.

"My colleague was a good-hearted man, who trusted people. While he was utterly loyal to the department and committed to his work …"

Uncle Arnie gave a mild snort, but Hannah nodded vigorously. "He _was_, Mr Peasegood," she said earnestly. "He was a bit … lonely before I started, that's all. And he was quite old. But he taught me so much, and he was r – really kind." Her voice broke. "It's so unfair. He was really looking forward to retiring. He told me he loved bicycles, and how he'd adapted one so it never got punctures, and had cushioning charms and everything."

Mr Weasley smiled enthusiastically. "That sounds like the Basil I knew."

"But you still had to pedal – he said that was the whole point. Did I ever tell you that, Neville?" A tear spilled down her cheek as she finished speaking, but she brushed it away. "Go on, Mr Weasley. Why did he feel sorry for her, when she was such a horrible person?"

"After the incident, one couldn't avoid the rumours that she had been eased out. They were rife on Level One, particularly in Maintenance and Cleaning, but they reached pretty far and wide. Noone no longer had anything to lose as far as her career was concerned, so she spent a great deal of her time establishing new strongholds where her supporters congregated, such as the Ministry bar."

"Perkins did spend a fair bit of time down _there_," Uncle Arnie chimed in.

"Not that you'd know anything about that, would you, Arnie?" Mr Weasley said with a trace of a grin that once again reminded Neville strongly of his youngest son.

"You've got me on that one, old man," said his godfather ruefully. "Ready for another?" Mr Weasley shook his head.

"There was some talk," he went on, "that the upper echelons didn't want a Muggle-born rising so high in the ranks, and that they'd had their eyes open for a while looking for an excuse to get rid of her. It seemed to fit with the way things were going in the years leading up to the last war. However, one thing was clear – the girl _had_ died, so while there were the usual rumblings about endemic discrimination, they never came to anything. Noone didn't help her case by complaining to everyone she met about the shabby treatment she had received."

"Damn right," said Uncle Arnie. "I never knew her personally, but her reputation went before her. I'm glad she was never posted into _my_ department."

"Your godfather is a hardened cynic." Neville was taken aback by the disapproving note in Mr Weasley's voice, until he saw the twinkle in his eye.

Uncle Arnie nodded sagely. "That's a fair assessment." The two men exchanged glances.

"Don't listen to him, Neville," said Mr Weasley. "Arnie's a good man, even if he is a suspicious old devil."

"Best way to be if you ask me," grunted his friend. "Old Perkins, on the other hand, was a man of pure heart and high principle."

"He was," agreed Mr Weasley. "For one thing, he would never have dreamed for a minute that a Ministry worker – even an ex-employee – would misuse a Cooperation Spell. By his account, Noone's performance in the Assistant role last year before she went on 'compassionate leave' was irreproachable. He had no reason to mistrust her, more's the pity. But that's not the worst of it. If Noone hadn't been posted back to Misuse when I was promoted, she would never have had access to the files."

"Er – files, Mr Weasley?" asked Hannah. The slight nervousness in her voice was apparent only to Neville.

"Papers in our Muggle Archive that seem to have inspired the development of these … inventions of hers. Certainly the forerunner to her first experiments with the traffic lights and the wind turbine."

Sitting down on the hearth rug again, Mr Weasley looked from Neville to Hannah, as though gauging their response to his words. "Fifty year old research, long forgotten by everyone, until now."

_He knows_, thought Neville uncomfortably. Hannah leaned forward, putting her empty tumbler down on the carpet. "I was _right_," she gasped. "Mr Weasley, there's something I should tell you …"

"That you did a bit of research yourself in your lunch hour, perhaps?"

Hannah gaped in astonishment. He didn't _sound_ angry, Neville decided.

"I went and had a look down there," he continued. "The entry spells showed that before you, Hannah, the last person to remove scrolls from the shelves was Noone – twelve months ago, two months after she started working in Misuse as Perkins' assistant. After I'd done a little reading, it wasn't difficult to put two and two together. I had the bit of glass from the traffic light with your note, and Nymphadora Tonks was rather helpful too."

Neville stole a glance at his godfather, who seemed on the verge of interrupting. However, just as Uncle Arnie was about to speak, Mr Weasley changed the subject. "That reminds me, Hannah … the tests on that substance at your house were completed at last. Tonks went to quite a lot of trouble to get a look at them."

"That was kind of her." However, Hannah didn't sound particularly interested. "Was it the potion Hermione Granger thought it was?"

"No, actually. Hermione was wrong, possibly for the first time in living memory." He smiled wryly. "It was a simple Draught of Peace."

"Was it her – that woman?" Neville spoke for the first time since witnessing Perkins' memory in the Pensieve.

"A matching sample was found at Noone's property. The age implied by its consistency indicates that, in all likelihood, it was from the same batch as the one which killed that poor Muggle girl. You had a lucky escape. The particles in the air alone …"

Excited, Neville interrupted. "But that means there's proof it's linked to Noone! It's evidence, isn't it? Tonks would back us up – she saw the stuff on the carpet." He shuddered. "Hannah nearly _died_."

Mr Weasley gave an awkward frown. Before he could answer, Uncle Arnie cut in. "I rather think the Minister feels he would have little difficulty in making that one go away," he said repressively. "There's been no official enquiry. Bedsides … there's a small matter of underage magic. Night flights on Frank's old broomstick, Neville?" He paused for emphasis. "You weren't caught because this young lady was with you. If it comes out she was incapacitated on the way back …do you want to end up in Azkaban on a trumped-up charge? It'd break your grandmother's heart."

Gradually, the full import of his godfather's words sank in. Neville wished he could disappear into the fireplace. Completely cowed, he stared at the toecaps of his trainers. Hannah shot him a sympathetic glance. "Neville saved my life, Mr Peasegood," she said quietly. "But Mr Weasley, you were saying … _what about the glass_?"

"Ah yes. I was coming to that." Mr Weasley jumped to his feet again and began to pace up and down. "On the morning you left it in my in tray, I must have just missed you. I came down as soon as I found it, but you weren't in your office. Instead, I found Arnold there with Perkins."

"I'd given you my word, Neville, remember?" said Uncle Arnie pointedly. "I sent him a memo requesting a chat as soon as I got in that morning. He was giving me the low down on that plastic toy the two of you had requisitioned from the Harding boy. Singing your praises he was too, young lady." Hannah smiled painfully, swiping the back of her hand across her cheek again. "'Course," he went on, "I knew at once the man was on the level. I may not be the world's most accomplished Legilimens, but I got enough to know he hadn't turned bad, and never would."

"I remember," murmured Hannah, almost inaudibly. "When I came in that morning, after I'd dropped off the glass at Mr Weasley's office, Mr Perkins made me go down to the canteen." She cleared her throat, and spoke a little louder. "He said he needed the office for a meeting. I was only gone fifteen minutes. When I got back, that's when he sent me home."

"That's right." Mr Weasley turned to Neville. "I got there a minute or two after Arnie, and he brought me up to speed on the conversation he'd had with you the night before, when he'd arranged the transfer of Mr Harding to St. Mungo's."

"I'd been thinking over the whole business ever since. Hardly slept a bloody wink," Uncle Arnie grumbled, in a way that Neville knew rather well.

"Your godfather wasn't too happy with me, I can tell you." Mr Weasley stopped pacing, and looked down at Neville and Hannah. "He seemed to think I'd been encouraging you to break the law."

Neville wasn't too bothered, remembering how impressed Uncle Arnie had been with their initiative. Hannah, however, looked embarrassed. "It wasn't his fault, Mr Peasegood. I was the one who got Neville involved."

"It was a neat bit of work, I'll give you that," said Uncle Arnie. "Still, Arthur and I decided there and then that the two of you had done quite enough."

"I must admit," Mr Weasley continued, "when I recommended you for the Assistant position, Hannah, it was never my intention for you to take things quite so literally into your own hands. Possibly a little short-sighted of me, given my own children's – and some of their classmates' – track records." It was Neville's turn to blush. He wondered if his ears were turning as red as Ron's sometimes did. "By this stage," Mr Weasley went on, "it seemed that the best thing to do was take Perkins into our confidence."

"I was a tad worried about who I could get to watch out for this Muggle until he was in a fit state for the botched Memory Charm to be lifted, d'you see?" explained Uncle Arnie. "These Healers have a habit of over-medicating, especially when an Unforgivable is involved. There was a danger of 'em damaging the real memory beyond repair with their damned potions. It's happened before."

"Augustus Pye was looking after him," said Neville, a shade mutinously. "_He_ wouldn't give anyone the wrong dosage."

Mr Weasley gave a brief laugh. "He's not wrong, actually, Arnie, although it's possible Pye might have tried out one of his complementary therapies." Hannah smiled wanly, but this remark was lost on Neville. "Anyway, I suggested my former colleague. It seemed like the perfect solution all round. We thought that _you_, Hannah, would benefit from a short holiday. Arnie and I were flat out with other work, so we left Perkins to tell you."

"Mr Weasley, did – didn't I do a good job in Misuse?" asked Hannah tentatively. "Was it because of what I did to the traffic light that you decided to sack me?"

"Me – _sack_ you? My dear girl, that is not what happened. Apart from anything else, I have no jurisdiction in that department any longer …"

Mr Weasley took out his wand and drew up another chair, which he positioned close to Hannah's. He sat down, and addressed her seriously. "From a brief conversation I had in the lift with Alastor Gumboil, I understand that the instruction to terminate your contract was given at the highest level. I can only speculate that the Minister was buying time while Noone was being interrogated."

"Hmph. Sounds about right," said Uncle Arnie.

"My guess is that he needed the past three weeks to come to a decision about how best to work the situation with Noone – and you – to his advantage."

As he had earlier when talking about the Minister, Mr Weasley seemed to be having difficulty getting his words out. "You will have gathered by now that Noone is not being held in connection with either your mother's or Perkins' death, nor indeed that of her parents. We now know that they were the first victims of her trials in using magic with Muggle power sources to cause injury and death, and that their passing left her with a house and a little money which gave her workspace for her experiments and freed her from immediate financial constraints."

Hannah gasped, looking as sick as Neville was feeling, but her eyes were dry for the time being. "How do you know all this, Mr Weasley?" she asked curiously. This time her frankness didn't pay off because he seemed reluctant to answer, leaving Neville's godfather to answer on his behalf.

"Suffice it to say, Arthur has his contacts with some of those involved in interrogating Noone. We weren't invited to be present when Gawain Robards went back to question the man she used as her dupe."

"M – Mr Harding?"

"The lorry driver, that's right. I was just brought in afterwards, to cleanse his mind of all traces of the magical world. Cleaning up other people's messes as usual. He was a nice chap, that Muggle. I was glad to be able to help him get his life back."

"It seems as though Alcina Noone regarded the people she harmed along the way as entirely expendable," said Mr Weasley quietly. "These past weeks, it's been particularly painful for me to discover some of the worst extremes of wizarding attitudes in someone who is herself Muggle-born. I'm not even sure it was entirely the money that motivated her. Regaining recognition and esteem from the organisation that she perceived had wronged her appears to have been the driving force behind her murderous 'experiments.'"

"I can't believe it," murmured Hannah. Finally, tears began to run freely down her cheeks. Neville handed her a clean hanky, wishing she wasn't having to go through all this. "Thanks," she sniffled. "But _why_, Mr Weasley? My mum never did anything to her."

"I'm so terribly sorry, my dear. I cannot do or say anything to make this any easier to understand or accept, but I can at least offer you a more accurate explanation of what happened than appears in that letter, if you would like one."

"More than anything," she whispered. "It's all I've wanted for the last year."


	20. Realisations

Chapter Twenty – Realisations 

"Very well." Mr Weasley paused, and took another sip of his brandy, as though he needed the fortification. "Now," he went on, "I'm afraid this has been pieced together second-hand and includes a certain amount of inference …"

"Inference … how do you mean?" asked Hannah, pressing Neville's handkerchief to her eyes.

"Based on my experience in Misuse. Noone's activities were, on one level, typical of the random nature of a great deal of nasty Muggle-baiting incidents that I've dealt with over the years."

"Random? Wait …" Hannah took the handkerchief away from her face. "Are you saying she didn't _mean_ to kill my mum?"

"No, Hannah, I'm afraid I can't say that. However, the plain and depressing fact of the matter is that Noone's only reason for choosing your mother as her victim was that she needed someone with a regular routine. Travelling to and from her place of work, your mother was at the same junction every weekday, almost to the minute. She did not even know at that stage that the woman she had selected as her second 'test case' was the mother of a witch."

Neville couldn't help interrupting. "And _her own mum and dad_ were the first?" Witnessing Noone killing Perkins in cold blood had disgusted him, but any sorrow he had felt had been on Mr Weasley's and Hannah's behalf, rather than for the old man himself, who had died a hero's death. Now, thinking about Noone's innocent parents, as well as Hannah's mum, the full horror of everything the witch had done sank in. He'd thought that nothing else could surprise him about the extent of evil in the world.

"Yes. I'm not sure there's any need for you to hear what happened to them. It's rather distressing."

"I'd – I'd rather not," Hannah answered quietly. "I want to hear about Mum." Neville was relieved. He didn't have the least idea what a wind turbine was and had no desire to find out. He took a sip of the revolting brandy, and after a moment the warmth hit his stomach, which helped slightly. Hannah seemed to be holding up rather better than he was, despite the tears that continued to roll down her cheeks at intervals. "Where did the lorry—, I mean Mike come into it?" she asked.

"Mr Harding was someone she picked up in her home town shortly after she moved back there. She met him in a public house near to where her parents had lived. He was friendly, easy to get to know, eager to please. She quickly learned that one of his long-distance routes between London and various towns in the North of England passed near to a possible location she had already earmarked in your home village. It had the right kind of road layout and excellent visibility. His journey could be made to intersect with your mother's with very little trouble. All Noone had to do was get Mr Harding, now living under the Imperius Curse, to make a small deviation to his route."

"She went to so much trouble," mumbled Neville. "I'm sorry, I just don't get it, Mr Weasley."

The older man sighed, but seemingly not with impatience. "Yes, that's something I've found strange myself over the years. It's very disturbing, the lengths to which Muggle-baiters will go."

"She made the lorry driver do everything, anyway." Hannah's voice was dreary. Neville caught her eye and held out his hand. She left her chair, and sat down on the hearth rug in the space vacated by Mr Weasley. "It was all at a distance," she said to herself quietly. "She hardly had to lift her wand." Neville rubbed the back of her knuckle with his thumb, trying his best to comfort her without words. He didn't have any to offer her.

"There is more to it …" said Mr Weasley apologetically, "if you would like me to continue?"

Hannah indicated that she would, and he leaned forward in his chair. "Noone needed Mr Harding to control the vehicle, that was his role. On the day of the accident, she made him wait in a lay by, while she positioned herself where your mother's car could be observed winding its way down towards the junction with the main road. Noone was able to time the collision perfectly, using a minute trace of magic to Transfigure the traffic light sequence so that it remained on green. She then lifted the Imperius Curse on the lorry driver so as not to arouse suspicion – she did not want him to display any odd behaviour that might attract the attention of the Ministry – and concealed herself. Mr Harding, of course, was shocked and confused by what had happened, but that was all to the good. His story at the scene was simply that he could not have avoided the collision, which was quite true. The simplicity of the plan was its beauty, you see."

"She could have got away with it, I think," said Hannah, still in the same colourless, detached voice as before. "I mean, never been found out at all. If she hadn't messed about with Mr Harding afterwards. Even then … we'd never have known what really happened if Neville hadn't gone to see him."

"I believe so too," said Mr Weasley. "It was afterwards that things began to go wrong for her. To her annoyance, a low-ranking MLE officer in the Improper Use of Magic Office arrived to examine the scene. From her knowledge of Muggle Liaison, she soon realised that he had been sent to make only a cursory investigation after your mother's death was reported."

"But how did they know so quickly?" asked Hannah.

It was something Neville had always wondered too. Professor Sprout had just told him Hannah's mum had been 'found dead' when he went to ask for her address. Mr Weasley looked embarrassed, Neville noticed. "The Ministry has its – er – ways of flagging certain changes in the Muggle population," he said delicately.

"Like those maps out there, you mean?" Hannah pointed in the direction of the outer office.

"No flies on this one, eh, Neville?" said Uncle Arnie dryly. Hannah spared him a cold glance.

Mr Weasley nodded. "Something similar," he said, answering Hannah's question. "I believe different offices have their own tracking spells and monitoring systems …"

"Depending on what they're looking out for," finished Uncle Arnie.

"You mean _every_ department except those involved in Muggle Liaison?" Hannah shook her head in disbelief.

"Er—" said Mr Weasley again.

"Not the internal departments, obviously," replied Uncle Arnie unapologetically

"Subject to regular checks and strict review procedures, or so I've always been _told_." Mr Weasley and Hannah exchanged a look of understanding.

"Now Arthur, don't get on your high horse," Uncle Arnie broke in with a touch of irritation. "You know perfectly well you've been glad enough to rely on our reports in times past."

Before Mr Weasley could reply, Hannah spoke again. "At least it makes sense now," she said, looking to Neville for confirmation. "No one ever explained properly." She sounded as though she were speaking from a long distance away.

He thought back to almost a year earlier, and how everyone in Herbology that morning had imagined another horrible incident like the ones that were being reported with increasing frequency in the _Daily Prophet. _The memory stood out clearly. He'd been helping the other Gryffindors prune the Venomous Tentacula when the door to Greenhouse Three had opened, letting the cold air rush in from outside. Professor Sprout had tutted in annoyance. A moment later, he'd watched his favourite teacher's face crumple, and then the gentleness with which she'd drawn Hannah Abbott to one side. As the teacher who had brought the news steered the white-faced girl past their table, he'd almost missed the tendril that was snaking around his neck.

He'd never taken much notice of the Hufflepuff prefect before then, except in the normal way. At some point during fifth year, when someone demanded to know who in their year was looking 'fit' that week, Neville had joined in for the first time, mentioning Hannah's name. Ron had howled with laughter and advised him to "go for it, mate." After careful consideration, Seamus had declared her "well-stacked" and commended Neville's taste. He'd filed her away in his mind as pretty, nice and completely out of his league. That morning he'd stood helplessly as she walked past, arms unthinkingly by his sides, ambushed by the raw pain he could see etched across her normally rosy and cheerful face. Her eyes had flickered to one side, and she'd pointed at his shoulder. "Watch out," she'd said hoarsely, as she was hurried out of the greenhouse. It was only after finding out she was gone for good that he'd realised he wanted to know her better.

"When Professor Sinistra came and got me," Hannah was saying, "I couldn't understand how the Ministry could even have known."

"Your mother's accident fell under a recent security directive," explained Mr Weasley. "The one requiring all sudden deaths which cannot be immediately attributed to natural causes to be investigated. This applies to anyone connected to our kind, including next-of-kin of Muggle-born witches and wizards. It should have been explained to you properly at the time."

"It wasn't," said Hannah sullenly.

"They can be a touch brusque in Improper Use, I've noticed," said Uncle Arnie contemplatively.

"The wizard was completely unprofessional in what he said to you, Hannah. After we last met, I had a brief word with Mafalda Hopkirk about it. She is an excellent witch, and runs her department impeccably."

"I've met her," Hannah replied. "She seemed really nice."

"Hah!" said Uncle Arnie. "I bet the bloke in question received sharp reprimand."

"I believe so."

"Thanks, Mr Weasley," she said dutifully. "But it really doesn't matter now."

Mr Weasley gave her a sympathetic glance and went on with his story. "As you can imagine, this greatly complicated things for Noone. When she realised there would be both a Ministry presence and her victim's witch daughter at the hearing, she panicked. Difficult questions might be asked. Her invention was not ready, she did not want to be discovered at such an early stage of her research. She decided to alter Mr Harding's memory."

"Mr Weasley?" Neville didn't want to interrupt, but he was in danger of getting left behind again. Something else had been puzzling him. "Why was that necessary, if she were controlling him with the Imperius Curse?"

Mr Weasley's voice went suddenly harsh. "Tampering with Muggle objects and causing the death of an innocent woman is one thing. Using an Unforgivable Curse, even on a Muggle, is in a different league altogether. She could not keep him under the Imperius while he was giving his testimony. Casting it in the presence of a Ministry MLE officer was too big a risk to take."

"Even the dimmest wand in Improper Use is trained to recognise the behavioural patterns of someone under the Imperius," supplied Uncle Arnie.

"For Noone to be assured of remaining at liberty to pursue her research, it was crucial that your mother was blamed for the accident. Mr Harding had to be beyond suspicion. There was a strong chance that if awkward questions were asked, his simple tale would not stand up. He might even remember that he'd been waiting in the lay by and forced to drive in a direction in which he had no intention of going. It was vital that by the time of the enquiry that his story would bear out the findings that your mother was at fault, that she had ignored a clear signal from the traffic light to wait."

Hannah rubbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. "If she hadn't tried to manipulate us, and just trusted to luck, we probably would have believed in the end that Mum lost concentration for a second, and ran a red light."

"Indeed. These Muggle – er – _inquests_…?" Mr Weasley looked doubtfully at Hannah, who nodded and gestured for him to go on. "I understand they are brief affairs. The lorry driver would, in all likelihood, have simply repeated his tale that he was driving along as usual, minding his own business, and had been unable to avoid the collision. Even if he'd mentioned that he was on a slightly different route to normal, this would have meant little to the Ministry representative, who was highly unlikely to come up with the possibility that Muggle-baiting was involved without a large, obvious splash of magic anywhere in the immediate vicinity. I wouldn't have done myself – not without both you and your father relating to me in detail the version of events given by Mr Harding at the inquest, allied with your rock-solid certainty that your mother had not taken her own life. I think perhaps it was because of her own expertise in Muggle technology, she failed to see the wood for the trees."

Uncle Arnie chimed in. "Yes, that was certainly where Noone slipped up. It's no small matter to alter a memory after the fact, even a very minor change. Very complex bit of magic, requiring subtlety and finesse, way beyond the ability of all but the most skilled witch or wizard. Noone's affinity is with machines, not minds. She could have destroyed that man's brain completely. It's a miracle she didn't. He'd have ended up little more than a vegetable, no better than Frank and poor Alice."

At this last remark, Neville noticed Hannah giving his godfather another one of her looks. She'd just have to get used to him, he thought, like she'd got used to Gran in the end. After all, it was no secret that his mum and dad's condition was hopeless. Neville's attention began to wander, as his thoughts ran along this well-worn path. Then, with a jolt, he hit a bump. What was it Pye had said? In the last few hours, since watching Perkins' memory of being murdered, the rest of that afternoon had dimmed in his memory. Now the Healer's words came back to him … about how his mum and dad should have more – what was it? _Stimulus_ – or something … rather than endless doses of a standard sedating potion, one containing hellebore of all things. What if there was something else …?

_No_, he told himself firmly. Gran was right about some things. She'd impressed on him for years that they mustn't allow themselves to hope. "You have to make your mark on the world, Neville," she'd said, the one time he'd tried to put into words his vague and uncertain reasons for wanting to follow his interest in Herbology and make it his career after leaving school. "How many times do I have to tell you that you can't stay in this dreamworld of yours all your life?"

Even when, six months later, he'd found out he'd got an 'O', she'd only sniffed and said, "Pity you couldn't have spent a bit more time getting your other grades up. All 'A's and 'P's except for three – and a 'D' for History. Your father got ten 'O's, you know." Of course he knew. "I can't say I'm impressed," she'd sighed. "At least you managed to scrape a pass in Potions. I'd never have been able to look Griselda in the eye again otherwise." As soon as breakfast was over, Neville had rolled up the parchment and rushed up to his bedroom to tell Trevor instead. He'd spent the rest of the morning writing a letter to his mum, which he'd placed carefully next to his other treasured possessions in the little wooden box that had once belonged to Grandad.

Silence had fallen over the room. Hannah was staring fixedly into the empty fireplace, as though entranced by something no one else could see. Neville wondered what Gran would say if he told her he'd been into a Pensieve, and seen someone's memory being extracted. It had only been last Christmas she'd finally accepted he wouldn't be applying to work with his godfather after his NEWTS. She'd had no choice, now that he wasn't doing Transfiguration, and thus no chance of getting anywhere in the Ministry, thank Merlin. She might despise the way they'd handled things over the last two years, but didn't stop her pushing him to get a job that would enable him to "take his rightful place in Wizarding society." Neville couldn't think of anything less appealing. Her latest attempt was trying to steer him towards conservation. "They're crying out for rural land managers up in Drear," she'd said at lunch on the first day of the Christmas holidays, pressing yet another Ministry leaflet on him. "Might as well do something useful if you're set on working outdoors like a common labourer."

Neville understood this to be more respectable than "import and export" out in foreign parts, like her brother Algie. "And a good pension at the end of it, too," she'd argued. If he survived the ravening beasts, he'd thought gloomily. "They want '_unswerving commitment to the countryside and our native magical heritage'_ – I suppose that means the Quintapeds, there's nothing much else up there – '_allied to a practical aptitude for basic restraint techniques and Muggle hand tools' …_ that's you to a tee, Neville." He wasn't so sure. He had nothing against Care of Magical Creatures, but animals were so predictable compared to plants. As for maintaining boundary spells, and looking after hedges and stuff – _bor-ing_.

"Oh … and '_a good level of physical fitness'_." His gran frowned, then rallied. "Well, that's all right. There's a bit less flab on you these days, love, and you've gained a few inches at last, even if you're never going to be six feet tall like your dad." Neville had ignored this, helping himself to three more roast potatoes and drowning his roast lamb in gravy. "Your Grandad loved the land too," she'd said thoughtfully. "You must get it from him." Neville had gone on eating in silence. He knew how much Gran had loved Grandad and looked up to him, even though she didn't hold him up as a shining example as often her son, the brilliant Auror.

With another jolt, as he came back to the present to find Hannah smiling faintly at him, Neville was surprised to discover that the familiar sensation of muddled anger, resentment and guilt was missing. He tested himself, prodding at his feelings carefully like a fading bruise. He'd never wanted to disappoint his grandmother, but he was beginning to see that following his own path might not have to mean choosing whatever she mapped out for him. It would be one more battle, but she would come round in the end. Life, he'd discovered recently, was definitely more interesting when he made his own decisions. Firmly Neville dragged his train of thought back to the matter at hand. Uncle Arnie had started up again. "Pardon me, Arthur, but I must say this mixing of magic and Muggle scientifical rubbish is a bad business. Always has been, always will be. No good ever comes of it."

"Yes Arnie, and that's why you never use your Ministry car, I suppose," said Mr Weasley dryly. It sounded to Neville like an exchange they'd had before. On balance, he had more sympathy with his godfather's view of things. "Would you like me to go on, Hannah?" asked Mr Weasley. She nodded. "That's pretty much everything I can tell you about your mother's accident, but there is a little more, if you'd care to know the broader scope of Noone's plans that is?" asked Mr Weasley.

"I think …" Hannah paused, then nodded. "Yes, I would." She seemed calmer now. Her eyes were still red, but she'd stopped scrubbing at them. Perhaps it really did make all the difference, Neville thought, knowing exactly what had happened to her mum.

"Very well. Noone's initial wind turbine and traffic light experiments were useful as a means to test the principle of harnessing the – er – elec-tricity." Mr Weasley pronounced the difficult word with care. "However, these devices were static, unwieldy. Of no use whatsoever in her quest to create a portable, stealthy weapon, which was her ultimate goal. The toy water pistols you have both seen – at Noone's own house and in Mr Harding's family home – were the second iteration of her project, on which she refined and extended her testing of the Transfiguration spells she had discovered in the old Muggle Research data."

Here, he got to his feet and began to pace up and down again, as though it helped him to think. "This was not satisfactory either. The toys utilised an inconstant source of Muggle energy – the simple pump-action mechanism – which she found difficult to work with, despite making several different prototypes. The amount of physical pressure needed to fire the device was too variable, and the intentionality needed to invoke the destructive spells built into the object rather great. Consequently, the magic itself remained somewhat heavy and crude compared to those she had developed to work with an electrical power source, and thus easy to identify by Dark Detectors."

"That must be why it made you feel so ill, Hannah," said Neville. She nodded, frowning, but didn't elaborate and he cursed himself for his lack of tact. Fortunately the two older wizards, despite appearing slightly puzzled at the exchange, didn't ask for an explanation. Uncle Arnie took up the story.

"The successful culmination of Noone's 'research' was the ingenious device which finished off poor old Perkins …" Then he broke off. "Well, we don't really need to tell you. You both saw what her latest weapon can do." Neville watched as he poured himself a third – or was it his fourth – brandy. "Hmph. She seemed pretty attached to it, that's for sure. I'd guess that up until then the young man had been her best source of comfort, so she kept him on a leash, poor devil. Never mind that he had a wife and child somewhere else."

"What I don't understand in that case," said Neville slowly, "is why she left him on his own. You said it was _her_ house, but it looked like no one else had been there for ages."

"I understand she had not been staying there in the weeks leading up to her final killing." Mr Weasley's voice filled with disgust. "Following the breakthrough of her last successful invention, it seems she decided to take her ease in a suite in the Dorchester Hotel spending what remained of her parents' legacy, apparently in preparation for the luxurious lifestyle she felt she deserved after her life of disappointment and privation." There was long pause as this sank in.

"So what was smashing up our house all about?" asked Hannah at last. "That's the only thing left to explain. I don't really want to know – it doesn't feel like my home any more – but you might as well tell me. Was she trying to get to Dad … to shut him up, or whatever?"

"Not exactly …" began Mr Weasley.

"But when we met before," Hannah interrupted him, "you said his letters could have attracted attention."

"Yes, but …"

"And she must have been able to tell there was no one living there, so what was the point of leaving that stuff behind on the carpet?"

Mr Weasley seemed to come to a decision. "This is what I know – if you're ready to hear it that is…?" Hannah nodded, squeezing Neville's hand more firmly. "She didn't go there looking for your father, Hannah. She went looking for _you_."


	21. A Choice and a Reward

Mr Weasley got up to stretch his legs again, unlike Uncle Arnie, who appeared to be growing roots into his chair. "Fortunately, she had no way of finding out that you and your father had moved out," he continued, "or – once she realised the house was abandoned – where you had gone."

Hannah's eyes were round with shock. "I have _you_ to thank for that, Mr Weasley …" For a moment, her grip on Neville's hand tightened convulsively. "And you and Augusta of course." Then she took a deep breath. "Go on, please."

"Noone still had various acquaintances – I would scarcely call them_ friends_ – acquired during her years at the Ministry. She kept herself informed after the inquest, made sure that the Ministry were no longer interested in investigating your mother's death, and the case remained closed. She was aware of your father's letter-writing for many months, although I understand it didn't particularly trouble her. As a Muggle, she did not see him as any threat to her. In fact, in some ways, she was quite remarkably careless."

"If you can call it that," muttered Uncle Arnie.

Hannah's lips were pressed tightly together, and Neville could feel her trembling, so he spoke on her behalf. "What do you mean, Uncle Arnie?" However, it was Mr Weasley who explained.

"For one thing, she knew for several weeks earlier this summer that Mr Harding had sent his son one of the water pistols, but she did nothing to try and get it back. It's almost as if she wanted the object to be discovered, and for it to end up at the Ministry. It was also at that time she discovered the daughter of the woman she had used so callously was now employed in her old position in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. I'm shocked to say the discovery amused her." He sighed deeply, shaking his head.

"Attacking you was intended to be a hint to the Ministry that Alcina Noone was back on the scene, and was now a force to be reckoned with. When she didn't find you, the potion she left on the carpet was her signature. If she had succeeded in entrapping you with it, she would not have cared, although it would not have advanced her ultimate plan. She had her eye on the bigger picture. You see, it was that day she had attained her prize goal. Her experiments had finally proven entirely successful, and she had reached the stage of needing a test case for her new invention."

"The torch …" breathed Hannah.

"Yes. So far she had evaded capture, no suspicion had been cast upon her. That was no longer what she wanted. Now, she wanted to be noticed. Targeting a wizard would create a bigger splash, attract more attention than another Muggle. For it to be someone from her old department meant the wheel would be turning full circle. She relished the irony. She failed in her first attempt, but did not give up. I think she would have preferred _me_ as her final victim, but an opportunity presented itself that she could not pass up."

"You mean she never intended …?"

"To kill Mr Harding? The Aurors have been unable to establish that for certain. She learned that he had been taken into St. Mungo's, and when she found out it was old Perkins minding him, she decided to pay both of them a visit. To some extent, it seems she was playing things by ear. You two youngsters may consider yourselves fortunate that she did not decide to open fire with that malignant little device when she met you in the corridor. In the end, she was not distracted. Perkins was the intended victim that day, her principal one in any case, rather than the defenceless Muggle, as my old friend believed when he tried to avert her murderous intentions."

"But that's just _crazy_ though, Mr Weasley," said Neville, incredulity getting the better of diffidence at last. "She must've known that if she killed someone out in the open, in the middle of St. Mungo's, with this weapon, that Magical Law Enforcement wouldn't be able to sweep _that_ one under the carpet. It's not like a Muggle car accident."

"Wouldn't they?" asked Hannah grimly. "Isn't that exactly what they've done?"

"I'm afraid the young lady has the gist of it, Neville lad," said Uncle Arnie.

Mr Weasley inclined his head in agreement. "Noone believed herself untouchable. She was convinced that – once the ex-Head of the Auror Office had a demonstration of the potential of the weapon she had developed – she would be all but immune from the legal consequences of her crimes. The events of the last three weeks have proved her confidence well-founded."

Neville absorbed this. It seemed impossible, but when he remembered the eager way the Head Auror had examined the torch, the fascination with which he'd turned it over in his hands, he found he could believe it after all. "Mr Weasley …?" he began again, more hesitantly this time.

"Speak up, lad," grunted his godfather.

"I once suggested that you call me by my first name," said Mr Weasley, smiling a little.

"Oh – er – OK. Erm, Arthur, do you know why your son – Percy – was at St. Mungo's that day? He was hanging around in the corridor when we met that woman." The older wizard's face darkened, and Neville worried for a second that he was going to get his head bitten off. However, while his mouth settled into a grim line, Mr Weasley's voice remained even and polite.

"I can't be altogether sure, but I have a pretty good idea. The Minister is concerned about the death of your mother, Hannah, only as far as it may impact on the way his administration is perceived by the world at large. Following the embarrassing incidents of the potion at your house, and Neville's discovery of the lorry driver's condition, I suspect the Ministry has become somewhat concerned about the possibility of the less – er – supportive branches of the press finding out about the inadequacy of their investigation."

That would figure, thought Neville bitterly.

"Therefore, I would guess Rufus Scrimgeour appointed his own babysitter for the lorry driver, and that my son was eavesdropping your conversation in the Hester Truelove ward to ensure that you did not hear anything regarding Mr Harding's true memory of the accident. Now that they wish to cover up the entire Noone affair, the Minister will be congratulating himself that you and Neville left St. Mungo's well before the murder took place."

"Even though we didn't in the end," said Neville. "We didn't see much, though, just the Aurors come to talk to Mr Harding, so we thought."

"The murder. That's the point, isn't it?" said Hannah, abject misery again apparent in her voice. Neville's handkerchief was screwed up in a soggy ball and she was kneading it with her fist. "And now nothing is going to happen to her. She'll just get away with it? What sort of world is this we're living in?"

To this, Mr Weasley didn't seem to have an answer. After a lengthy pause, Uncle Arnie took up the question instead. "Scrimgeour would argue one of expediency, my dear," he said gently. "As we are all only too aware, there is a grave threat hanging over the whole of the wizarding world. We are in the middle of a fight for our very existence. The Minister may truly feel he is acting for the best."

"I'm beginning to wonder if any of us – or our way of life – is worth saving," Hannah replied. The strain of the afternoon appeared to be telling at last. A sob escaped her, and Neville made an involuntary movement towards her. She leaned forward, dropping her head onto his shoulder, and he stroked her hair as tears soaked into his t-shirt.

While Uncle Arnie had taken refuge in his tumbler again, Mr Weasley appeared unembarrassed by this display of affection. After a moment, he went on. "He and his closest advisors would argue that if the knowledge of how to create such weapons is in the world, it should be in Ministry control, and no one else's. According to him, having Noone continue her research, and allowing her to oversee the continued development and manufacture of her inventions is in the 'interest' of all who reside under his protection."

"That's a load of rubbish though, Mr – Arthur." Neville looked up, his shyness evaporating completely as his anger took hold. "Is – isn't it?" he finshed, more doubtfully, looking round at Uncle Arnie for support.

"It's what the effects might be should these devices be produced in large quantities that worries me," said his godfather, addressing his colleague.

Mr Weasley regarded him steadily. "That's why, Arnie, you and I must be ever-watchful from now on. You know I didn't really drag you along to those Muggle shops earlier because I was concerned about shaking my son off our tail. If anything I hoped he would follow us. I _want_ him to be aware …" He ground to a halt. His friend's eyes crinkled in understanding.

"Fair enough, Arthur. I take your point. Constant vigilance then, like that mad old stick Moody used to say." He smiled reminiscently. "Your dad did a cracking impression of him, y'know." Neville, who was still holding Hannah although her shudders had subsided somewhat, felt something close to impatience with his godfather.

"Noone should stand trial," he said firmly. "Everyone should know what she's done."

"Yes, they should," agreed Hannah in a thick, tear-clogged voice.

"She is not to be tried by the Wizengamot," Mr Weasley's voice was harsh. "Noone has been stripped of her wand for the crime of using an Unforgivable Curse on Mr Harding, for how long, I do not know. For the time being, she has been placed under armed Auror guard with the additional protection of constantly renewed Cooperation Spells. As long as this remains the case, she is, at least, not a danger to anyone. I am sorry, Hannah. It must be small comfort." He lapsed into silence.

Hannah lifted her head from Neville's shoulder. Her eyes, dry once more, blazed into the fireplace. "Maybe I was right after Mum died, when I thought I was better off in the Muggle world."

Mr Weasley roused himself again. "Hannah, no one could blame you for asking yourself these questions, considering what you have been through. I understand myself how difficult it can be to hold onto what is right – in this world where brute pragmatism and corruption appear to hold complete sway."

His words seemed to be getting through. Hannah lifted her head and listened intently as Mr Weasley went on. "I would ask you to consider another young person of our acquaintance, someone who has also had one or two unpleasant brushes with Rufus Scrimgeour. I think it might help remind you what's important …" He paused thoughtfully before continuing. "It is vital that those of us who believe that we could be – should be – living in a better world stand together to fight in whatever way we can. As you can probably guess, Hannah, I'm talking about Harry Potter. He's a friend of yours, I believe?"

"Well – sort of," she mumbled. "More Neville's than mine, really. I don't know him that well."

Mr Weasley gave a small shrug. "I understand you were part of – er –_Dumbledore's Army_, against Dolores Umbridge in your fifth year?" She nodded, looking a little taken aback. "That in itself is something to be proud of, Hannah."

She blushed. "I never did anything, I just learned enough to pass Defence Against the Dark Arts."

"Well,_that's_ not to be sneezed at either," said Uncle Arnie gruffly, looking at Hannah with respect. Neville's annoyance with his godfather dissipated instantly.

Mr Weasley took another sip of his brandy, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Listen to me, Hannah. You asked me earlier if you had done a good job in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts. To most of our kind, it is not exciting work, but it is necessary, and has value. There is one thing in that letter from the Minister that is perfectly true. You have a decided talent for Liaison work. According to my friend and colleague of twenty-five years standing, you have the combination of subtlety, empathy and integrity required to make you a perfect fit for the Assistant job."

Hannah blushed again, and Neville felt a warm glow of pride on her behalf.

"That's not to say," Mr Weasley went on, "I think it entirely wise for an operative of your age and relative lack of field experience to take over as Head of Department … but given the current state of affairs, I would rather see you in the post than have Misuse disappear entirely, which is the most likely scenario otherwise. If you decide to accept this deal the Minister has offered you and your father …" He paused, as Hannah frowned, looking troubled, then pressed on. "Rest assured, I will do everything in my power to assist and advise you, although I'm afraid the extent of my help may be limited to the odd five minutes here and there."

"Thank you," said Hannah soberly. "I appreciate that, Mr Weasley." However, Neville could tell that she remained uneasy. She pulled the Minister's letter out of her pocket and began to look it over, this time bypassing the letter itself to study the terms of the magical contract enclosed with it. Mustering all his courage, Neville spoke up.

"Mr Weasley? You never really said _why_ you gave us back the glass with the curse traces on it. Are we really going to let the Ministry cover this up? I know it's your job on the line … and yours too, Uncle Arnie. But I'd risk Azkaban, if it means bringing Noone to justice."

His godfather broke in impatiently. "It's not about Arthur and I saving our skins, you daft lad."

"Calm down, Arnie," said Mr Weasley. "Neville, your sentiment is a commendable one but …"

"No more is it about our pathetic careers, what's left of 'em." Uncle Arnie seemed to remember where he was and lowered his voice a little. "Do you really think that we want the two of you ruining your lives over this before they've even begun? See the pair of you being dragged through the mud of the gutter press, or dumped in Azkaban and left to rot if Scrimgeour really chooses to flex his muscles?"

Mr Weasley's quieter, but no less urgent voice interrupted his excitable friend. "I think you've seen, Neville, some of the effects of unwanted celebrity at close hand?"

About to protest again, Neville checked himself, and began to listen as attentively as Hannah had a few minutes before.

"I'm sure that isn't the kind of spotlight you desire for yourself, or for Hannah, particularly in times like these. Think of your grandmother. No one who puts a value on their life and wishes to survive should be eager to attract unwanted attention in the current climate, even those who elect to be on the front line. Your friend Harry understands the importance these days of choosing his words, and making his decisions carefully. It's part of growing older, knowing which battles to pick."

Behind his glasses, Mr Weasley's eyes glinted fiercely. "_This isn't one you can win_. The glass is Hannah's insurance policy for the future. There may come time when she has greater power, and the strength to test it against a man like Rufus Scrimgeour."

Neville had no arguments left, but the thought of letting Noone – and Scrimgeour – win made him feel sick to his stomach. Several steps ahead of him as usual, Hannah didn't appear to have listened to Mr Weasley's final few words. Now, she looked up from her contemplation of the sheets of closely written parchment. "I didn't notice before, but he's already got to Dad. He's agreed to be paid off. It says here _'compensation for pain and suffering to the value of 50,000 Galleons.' _And Dad's signed it."

"Don't be too hard on your father, Hannah," said Mr Weasley gently. "He has no reason to disbelieve that justice has been served. And he has suffered greatly."

"I know," said Hannah soberly. "I've made my decision. I'm going to sign it too. No, listen Neville. It's best for everyone. At least now I know the truth, that's the main thing. And you know what they say about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. If I'm at the Ministry, and I work as hard as I can to learn how the whole rotten system works, I might just have a chance to do something about it one day."

"Spoken like a true Hufflepuff," said Mr Weasley, smiling.

"There does appear to be one possible get-out clause in this contract," Hannah went on. "As far as I can tell, it's _keeping_ the money that's conditional on my silence, not taking it in the first place. The same with accepting this job. I'll have to get a good lawyer to look it over, but I _think_ if I can eventually pay back the money they're giving Dad and resign from the Ministry, the contract can be broken, and I'll be able to talk about it. It'll take years of course, but I'd want to give it back anyway." Her eyes flashed and her face wore its fiercest expression, as she looked around to check that they had all heard her last words.

Neville felt ferociously proud of her. He was still furious at the Minister for what he was doing to Hannah. Not just to her, he reminded himself, but to other honest people as well. It was just as wrong to force his godfather and Mr Weasley to bury the truth about Noone and her involvement in kind old Mr Perkins' death. The stinking money had blood all over it. He determined to do everything in his power to help Hannah break the contract as fast as humanly possible.

"If that's everything, I really must be getting on home." Mr Weasley's voice was more cheerful than it had been all afternoon. "The house is rather too quiet for my wife's liking just at the moment. I must not deny her an additional stomach to feed."

* * *

Hannah decided not to go with Neville to King's Cross on the first of September. She said it was because she didn't want to face all her friends' questions about whether she was coming back to school after all. Really, it was because she knew it would be difficult enough to say goodbye to him without having to watch the Hogwarts Express pull out of platform nine and three quarters. For days, her heart had felt like it was slowly tearing into two separate pieces. 

"I'll let Augusta enjoy showing you off for the last time," she said teasingly, as they finished breakfast, their final leisurely morning before the frantic, last-minute rush that Neville's grandmother had assured her the following day would bring. "Head Boy. I think _her_ head might explode. And if it doesn't, Ernie's will when he sees you."

"I still think McGonagall's finally lost her marbles." Neville looked frankly terrified, as he stared at the red and gold badge in his hand for the hundredth time since it had arrived, the day after they'd learned the truth from Mr Weasley. "I really don't think I can handle this. Thank Merlin Luna and Ginny are going to be on the train." He put it back on the kitchen counter. He'd been sorry, but for some reason not particularly surprised to learn, in the letter enclosed from the Headmistress along with his seventh year booklist, that his three closest friends in his year were not coming back to school.

"Make sure you don't let that Parvati Patil go all soft on you, now that you're a man of status." Hannah continued to tease him, as she wondered again who would be Head Girl alongside her boyfriend. She realised she'd be perfectly happy if, in Hermione Granger's absence, one of the remaining Gryffindor or Ravenclaw girls were given the honour. Mind you, she thought, forcing herself to be honest, she wouldn't even mind too much if it turned out to be awful Pansy Parkinson, although she doubted Neville would agree with her. Hannah was finding, to her shame, that she couldn't suppress a nasty little hope that it would be anyone other than her best friend Susan. To know that it should, by rights, have been hers … she would find that difficult to bear.

"Status _and_ experience," said Neville with a grin, holding out his arms for another cuddle.

"I know her sort," giggled Hannah, seizing him around the waist and squeezing tight. "She'd only be after your body."

For this bit of cheek, Hannah's punishment was to be lifted bodily into the air and carried over the threshold of the back door into the garden of Hill House. "I could hex you, you know," she said, making no attempt to go for her wand.

"I'd like to see you try." He struggled up the steep slope of the lawn, a destination in mind.

"Put me_down_, Neville. I must weigh a ton."

Neville considered. About the same as Hermione, give or take ... He smiled to himself, wise enough by now to know exactly how much of a bad idea it would be to mention another girl's name at this particular moment.

The air was heavy with the scent of late summer. He'd miss this place when he left the next morning. Hannah was now chuntering about how he should make friends with Ernie and Susan and the other 'Puffs, and how pleased they'd all be if he and Luna and Ginny Weasley did manage to reinstate the DA. "Especially Zach," she said. "He used to talk about it all the time."

_Yeah, right_, thought Neville, not feeling the least bit inclined to go on talking. Make friends with Zacharias Smith? Like _that_ was going to happen. He might try and get to know Ernie a bit better though, he mused, thinking of Hannah's words the other day about keeping friends close and enemies closer …

He finally lowered his girlfriend to the ground again when they reached the camomile lawn at the top of the garden. He'd reseeded it the week before and with the Acceleration Spells, it was already looking and smelling pretty good. By next summer it would be perfect. _Shouldn't be walking on it yet, really_, he thought vaguely. Or lying on it, for that matter. _Oh well_, he said to himself, as he finally managed to shut Hannah up with a kiss. _You only live once._


End file.
